Mayday: The 175th Hunger Games
by cornellfann
Summary: "Even sadists can find love." -HoppsHungerfan, 2018.
1. Prologue I

_On the one hundred and seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, twenty-four tributes born in May will be reaped. These tributes will all have alternating birthdays in the month, starting from the seventh of May and ending at the thirty-first of May, the exact timeline of the games. For every day the games progress, whichever tribute's birthday it is the following day will have exactly one day to kill another tribute to survive another week at the hands of the Gamemakers. If they fail to do this, they will be killed._

Nicol Janvier, Head Gamemaker:

It's ridiculous.

Propagandist.

Exaggerated.

An epitome of Capitol culture.

It's _beautiful_.

It's like the cards know. It's like they know I'm a sadist at heart.

That I want to kill these children.

That I long for their demises. Their slow, agonising, gruesome demises.

It is to occur.

Otherwise I wouldn't be here. The President shares my desires, to end the Districts slowly; to slowly snatch their hope, taunt them and then crush it forever. President Ember Saint-Blaise, the young, flamboyant, intelligent leader the Capitol deserves.

President Ember Saint-Blaise, here to rule fair, punishing the Districts at all costs while providing a life of luxury for her righteous people.

President Ember Saint-Blaise, finally the one. The one who shares my desires, dreams, ideas and-

President Ember Saint-Blaise, standing right next to me.

I realise I've been silent much longer than I need to be for whatever she told me, or asked me or-

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question, Miss President?"

"What question, silly? I was just admiring our city as well."

A light chuckle falls on her lips; her lips, coated in bright red lip gloss, meeting each other again after she finishes her giggles. In all my twenty-six years of life, my eyes had never befallen upon such beauty.

"Oh, I see."

"I hope your plans for this years' Quell are as grand as the sight our eyes currently hold, Nicol."

"Of course, Miss President, although I assume you've seen our plans, providing Rees followed his orders."

"Need not worry, he followed them."

That smile again.

"However, would you remind me again, Nicol?"

"Sorry?"

"The plans, Nicol."

Right. The plans.

"Well, the cards decreed that every tribute must be born in the month of May with differentiating birthdays. Of course, we checked the populations and this is indeed possible. I know you've read of this already, Miss Pres-"

"Please, Nicol, just Em."

"Of course, Em. W-Where was I, uh, ah the reaping! Yes, it will be a 'May-only-reaping', as we're dubbing it. It's too hard to get every kid to show up to the reaping in some of the, well, more _rebellious_ Districts like Six and Eleven, so we've enforced death in every District for all May-born children who aren't present."

"Good!" Em replies, ruffling my pinkish hair eagerly, smiles forming on both our faces. My fists tighten more behind my back, every bit of appreciation I receive lifting me higher.

"Yes, well, when we have our tributes, the chariot rides are set to have a theme of spring, going with May and all. Then, training, interviews and finally, the arena."

"Have you decided on that yet, Nicol dear?"

"Well, we were going to discuss it with you today Em, considering the team's gotten off their asses to see you. In the next room, if you will."

We stride out of the observation deck and onto the balcony above the headquarters. Gasps and snaps to attention fill the room as we're noticed.

"Miss President!"

"Panem forever!"

"Good morning, you two!"

"Settle down, you lot!" The flurry of attention ceases with my words. "Yes, we have a special guest today," I nod at Em, "but it doesn't mean slacking off for photos!"

The flurry roars again, only this time with phrases of agreement.

"Yes sir!"

"Fine."

"Whatever you say, Nicol."

Agreement and dissent, but agreement nonetheless.

"Hello everyone, Nicol here tells me you've got the arena all planned out."

"Miss President." Tess, one of the senior Gamemakers, rises and projects the plan for the arena. "We do. During the season of Spring, Miss President, the Earth constantly rotates towards the Sun. Both the north and south hemispheres warm and-"

"So explain to me why you want another year of snow."

The bright blue holograph indeed shows snow, something I wasn't aware was embedded into the design. As I open my mouth to protest against Tess, she shoots me a glare. "You see Miss President, that's the whole point. There are no bodies of water in the arena. Snow melts with heat. After a period of time, the snow will have melted and revealed a paradise of exotic flora and fauna. But what happens when snow melts?"

"Ice?"

"Rees, you're an idiot."

"Water." Em answers, her facial expression detailing the inner workings of her mind, processing Tess's words and the effect it will have on the Games.

"Correct. This amount of snow will form-"

"A flood."

* * *

 **Hey! So this is my first SYOT! I'm pretty excited to do this! I'm cornellfann, by the way, but you can call me Jack.**

 **I really don't have many rules and I'm not overly strict or judgmental on anything related to these stories. I'll take pretty much any tribute I get, although I do have some queries, most of which are outlined on the form on my profile. Any one person can submit up to THREE tributes, mainly because I don't think I'll get many entries to be completely honest. You can submit via review or PM, either way I'll get back to you, probably by PM.**

 **I'm relatively new here, so some constructive criticism or any tips of SYOT writing would be appreciated where applicable. I promise you I'm not a mean person! I'm not going to be biased against any tribute I receive! I'm here to serve and entertain.**

 **I may write another prologue explaining this Quarter Quell more although that really depends on the influx of tributes I receive, whether it be many or few.** **Also, note I'm using the season of spring in northern hemisphere meteorology: as in spring is in May and not September like in Australia, where I'm from.**

 **Let me know your though** **ts on this story in a review and thank you for reading!**


	2. Prologue II

Nicol Janvier, Head Gamemaker:

"You see, a tribute can off half the arena but if they don't kill someone on their birthday, I get to choose their ending."

"Nicol, you sick fuck. This entire twist was made just to satisfy you, wasn't it?"

I sure wasn't expecting that.

My grin is wiped clean from my face when Bard turns and stares daggers through my skull, slamming a schooner down near my exposed hand.

"I love it!"

Laughter erupts between the two of us as Bard's face creases as his mouth breaks into a wide smile and I watch the towelette over his shoulder sway as he swings his hand to greet my hair, ruffling it eagerly. "You finally made it, kid!"

Damn right I did.

"You're the biggest name in the Capitol! I'm surprised you even remembered me, slaving away in this here bar."

"How could I forget you, Bard?"

Bard Munruben Jericho, my biggest inspiration. He's always been tall and imposing, it's a wonder in itself how he doesn't hit his head walking in the door. Been working in a bar for fifteen years and he's only just turned thirty. One of the few I can confidently confide in, even in this public setting; he never gets a break. He's been going grey half his life.

"Well, maybe it got to your head, just like the last bloke in your job, eh?" he says with a laugh. It makes me uneasy, thinking of what the President did in only her first year in office.

Jos Merrick, head gamemaker for only two years until he made a fatal mistake; his tributes opposed him, slitting their own throats to leave old Jos without a victor. He was forced to resurrect the tribute who survived the longest, which cost the Capitol money and tarnished its reputation, making a laughing stock out of their games. Jos resigned after the games, but that didn't stop his public decapitation.

It's time to leave.

"Go pour some beer, Bard."

"Y-You're leaving so soon?"

"I've got matters to attend to."

Bard nods with a knowing smile and I stride out the door, past couples lounging on the green leather seats made to resemble an old-style pub mixed with diner chic. The _Taberna Muns Ruben_ is the hub of town, an easy meal for Capitol folk situated right in the centre of the entertainment capitol of... the Capitol. Only a few streets away lie the lane that leads to the presidential buildings, on which the chariots will ride in the coming weeks.

The chariots will carry twenty-four children, dressed exquisitely by the most talented designers and stylists in Panem. These children will spend a week dining on the most exquisite and elegant food in the country as they train for three days to prepare for the pageant. Swords, spears and knives but also survival skills and intelligence are needed to survive in the arena, which they are dropped in right after the interviews.

Of course, the Capitol population are essential to the tributes surviving this game. They can sponsor a tribute, maybe more, and secure their survival by providing them with essentials; food, water, a map to shelter, but also weapons and key intelligence on the other tributes; their locations, skills and current situations. But, the Capitol folk aren't stupid; they won't pay to keep you alive if they don't like you. The interviews are a key procedure in the games where the audience can get to know and get to like a tribute; on the contrary they could get to loathe a tribute as well.

Another way for the tributes to increase their chances of winning is through their training score, a summary of the tribute regarding skill, intelligence and probability of winning the games. They range from one to twelve, twelve being exceptional. The scores originate from the private sessions where tributes get fifteen minutes to showcase their ability to the Gamemakers, the governing body of the games.

Which, this year, includes myself.

It's surreal.

People gasp and gloat in awe as I walk these streets directly in front of them. A Gamemaker walking among them, and not just a Gamemaker, a _Head_ Gamemaker. Yes, after my announcement a few days ago, people have likened to me for many reasons. My fashion sense; casual yet professional. My style; pink and white, similar to our President who wears pink and white dresses. My plans for the games and my overall personality; I portray myself as a warm and bubbly being, harmoniously working for the people of the Capitol. While I am one for the people, few know of my true plans.

The Quell card is announced publicly tonight. Of course, myself, my team and the President were made to know of the twist months ago so we can prepare properly for the games, but finally the people- and the Districts -will know of the hope I bring to them, the hope I bring to their pageant, the hope I bring to Panem.

But the hope is only for my people.

I will reignite their flame against the Districts and pour as much damn fuel over it as I need to make them despise the outer lands. I will make them long for tribute deaths while maintaining the entertainment of the games as much as possible. This is, of course, a national event.

I will write my name into the history books as a Gamemaker for the ages. "Nicol Janvier" will forever reside alongside the most beloved names in Panem.

I already spy myself around the city, bleached white skin, chiseled jaw facing upward, looking unto the horizon, hopeful of the future as my recently-dyed bright pink hair stands naturally, swooping to the side. My neck muscles are bulging, shoulders flat, bright blue eyes searching for my name, plastered by my picture.

'Nicol Janvier: The People's Gamemaker'

The people's Gamemaker.

I love it.

I've developed a confident swagger by the time I arrive at the Headquarters, strolling in smiling. I don't normally smile, I'm extremely insecure of the gap between my front two teeth, but I feel it's good for me to feel some self-love every once in a while.

Our front desk, Jahla, looks up momentarily from the latest issue of _Capitol Couture_ and almost looks shocked. She's such a slacker I would sack her if she wasn't such a sight for our business relations. Sweet smile, rounded face, long, blonde hair fading to pink; it's our own little trend to have pink hair. In fact, it's growing so popular I'm expecting the Flickerman of the year to adopt out colours for the interviews.

"Morning, Nicol!"

I slump against the clear marble desk bearing a Hunger Games banner and flop my hair over my face, attempting to act cool and aloof. "What's shaking, bacon?"

"Bacon?"

"It's a saying, Jahla."

"Oh! I get it! They rhyme!"

I sigh aloud to emphasise my dissent. "Yes, now have you sent out those infomercials yet? The games is a national event, you know."

"Huh?"

"The information commercials about the games, have you sent them?"

"Oh, no."

"Well hop to i- hey, who is that?" Laden across the first page of _Capitol Couture_ is a lady strikingly familiar in my mind. Her head a mess of long, brown to pink locks, curling its way down her face, lips decked in bright red gloss, colourful tattoos streaming down her right arm and dressed in a bright red dress, low cut. The Capitol's favourite magazine has a tradition of not labeling its topics... could it be?

"That's President Ember, silly!"

She's dyed her hair pink.

We've made it.

We've been endorsed by the President.

We can take over the world!

"Jahla... Jahla she looks like us!"

With a sharp giggle and a smile Jahla nods, her cheeks overbearing her eyes as they make room for her smile.

Another spring is added to my step as I bound toward the elevator. We've made it. _I've_ made it.

I'm going to make this the best Hunger Games of all.

* * *

 **Part two of Lovestruck: The Adventures of Nicol, everybody!**

 **We have two final slots available for this SYOT, District 11 Male and District 12 Male! I'd like to say a big thank you to everyone who's already submitted and an even bigger thank you to those who've supported this story by reviewing, following and favouriting! It means the world to me to have such a solid start!**

 **I can promise you the first POV will be coming within the next few days. Thank you for reading!**


	3. Meeting My Fate: Ty

Tydarius "Ty" Petrit, 12, District 6:

"Peren! S-S-Stop!"

I can hardly keep my laughter through my words as Peren scrambles around on the floor tickling every bit of skin on my body. "Don't eat my peas!" she says playfully, trying not to attract the attention of every other kid in the home as she manically moves her fingers around my ribs. Any laughter whatsoever has been pretty lackluster lately, considering it was April twenty-third only a few days ago.

A day I've come to hate, considering it was the day our parents were murdered.

We were there, but I don't remember much. I was only seven and the recurring scene I see most nights is dad, on the floor, clutching his chest. My dad, my loving dad who took me to the library on his days off, where I got my love of superheroes. I read as much as I can now, alone, because Peren can't ever read again after what she saw.

Peren, still tickling me somewhat painfully.

"P-Peren! Stop! We have to empty our plates!"

"Right, dinner... where you ate my peas while I wasn't looking you thief!" Peren chuckles as she helps me up.

I'm a little dazed from all the tickling as we walk over to the table and scrape the meagre scraps into the bin. As we turn, however, I spy Jimmy Belfour hassling little Cain for his mince. Jimmy Belfour, the bully of the home against a 10-year-old orphan.

"Ultraboy." I whisper, feeling the corner of my mouth raise as I plonk my plate down and race over to Cain's seat, colliding with Jimmy intentionally and sending him over on his knees.

"Ty!" I hear Peren call as Jimmy's huge eyes lock on to me like a lion, one of the animals I read about existing a long time ago, on its prey. I look at Cain and mouth "go", to which he obliges, heading off quickly.

"Little Petrit being a hero again? I was only going for a feed."

"You know that's the wrong thing to do."

"Get over yourself. I saw you eat your sister's peas."

Crap. I did do that.

"Y-You don't... That doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" Jimmy snaps, taking a step towards me.

"Come on." A hand on my shoulder snaps me out of my fear of this huge boy, snarling at me as Peren turns me around and drags me away.

"Peren," I whine, tugging on her arm, "Ultraboy was gonna serve him a hot, steaming plate of justice!"

"No, he wasn't. Look!" The community home's TV is lit up with the seal of Panem, continuously spinning, around and around and around. "It must be nine in the Capitol. Come on, slowpoke!" Peren runs over to the other kids to try and get a seat before they do. She's fast, but not fast enough and we have to stand and watch as President Saint-Blaise meets our eyes from the screen.

"Panem, good evening. As you know, this year's Hunger Games is a Quarter Quell."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Shut up Jimmy!"

"But first," the President continues, "Let us remind ourselves on how we came to this moment."

Groans that always come with any sort of speech fill the room as the full reading of the Treaty of Treason begins and ends after what seems like an eternity.

"Now, the moment you've all been waiting for, I'm sure." The President steps closer to the microphone, not even attempting to hide her smirk.

Ultraboy would not like this.

"Sick bitc-argh!"

A Peackeeper holding a taser comes out of nowhere as Jimmy writhes around on the floor in pain. Through the screams of agony, everyone keeps their eyes directed to the screen as the President continues, in fear of their own shock therapy.

This isn't out of the ordinary here. The Peacekeepers have developed a quietness about them, an ability to blend into the shadows and control the crowds when needed. All across places like Six there are more and more people acting up against the Capitol, more people dying for their actions. If Jimmy wasn't fifteen he may be publicly whipped for his tirades against the President.

"Aimed to keep fresh in the minds of each generation the memory of all who died in all uprisings to date. Each Quarter Quell is a special Games: one of significance and specialty, Thus, tonight we shall read the card for this, the seventh Quarter Quell. In penance for their uprising and as a reminder to the Districts that the Hunger Games season will never escape them or their offspring, the reaping pool will be comprised of children with birthdays spanning from the seventh to the thirty-first of May, the exact timeline of this years' Games. More details will be released later. Panem forever."

May... m-my...

My birthday is May thirteen.

What did she say? _As a reminder to the Districts that Hunger Games season will never escape them or their offspring, the reaping pool will be comprised of children with birthdays spanning from the seventh to the thirty-first of May, the exact timeline of this years' Games._

Oh my God... how many other children are born in May? It can't be many... we're conceived in August... that's harvest season for, like, District... uh...

 _I don't want to die_.

"Ty."

Peren. Peren, Oh my God... Peren was born in May too.

"Ty, it's okay."

I throw myself into Peren's arms. My big sister and I, both at danger of death in a reaping we could've avoided by just being born in another month. Peren strokes my messy red hair and walks me to our room.

Everything happens so quickly; the room, it's messy, as usual. What little amount of my belongings I was able to keep before the Peacekeepers kicked us out of our home reside all over the floor near my bed, which is really just a mattress on some ironed-out metal. Peren's side of the dorm completely contrasts mine, being almost completely bare. She didn't keep anything after the Peacekeepers came, I couldn't guess where it is now.

Peren's long, blonde hair that hasn't been cut in months flops over my face as she lays me on my mattress, which suddenly feels like brick and not soft, springy foam.

"P-P-P-Peren! Your hair's in my mouth!"

"Shh," she says, kissing me lightly on the forehead, brushing my hair back, over my ear and into the crevice that lay behind. I can feel my eyelids growing heavy, my mind, alive with questions and fright, slowly falling into a halt, too tired to worry anymore.

I'm scared.

I'm awoken by the morning rays of sunshine fluttering through our window, bouncing off the old train cars blocking their path. They eventually reflect off the wall and snake around the entire area of our room, lighting up my eyelids.

I rise and am greeted by an empty bed, creased sheets hastily made. I don't wonder where Peren is and walk forth to our nonchalant little closet, where I find my usual raggedy brown trousers. I dress, accompanying the pants with an old blue shirt and black sneakers, both of which barely fit my torso and feet respectively.

I sit on the edge of my bed, dwelling on the night's events. I rub my temple, finding I don't remember much. Yesterday, April twenty-fifth... the Quell reading.

 _As a reminder to the Districts that Hunger Games season will never escape them or their offspring, the reaping pool will be comprised of children with birthdays spanning from the seventh to the thirty-first of May, the exact timeline of this years' Games._

May, my month of birth. May thirteenth, the day I was born. In the... timeline. Today, reaping day. My first reaping.

My Ultraboy instinct flares as I comprehend the evil of this day, this moment in time. When not only my life but my sisters' life is in danger.

My sister, the only person who truly loves me more than anything in this world, who would trade her life for mine if I could live safe, at risk of death.

The hellish part of my brain that houses fear itself produces a gruesome image of Peren, decked in games attire, bludgeoned against a tree. I shake my head, close my eyes, but it won't go away. My hands rise and claw at my skull, digging into the skin. I scream and I don't stop myself after the image disappears and shifts Peren's body with mine, hollowed out, lifeless, bloody, mashed against an old oak.

I scream and make nonsensical begs as my fingers scrape past several layers of skin.

 _I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!_

Everything in this world turns evil as I fall to my knees, not feeling the pain or the blood trickle down my fingers. I see it, however, the blood enhancing the image in my mind. It's still there, my dead body, my screams echoing and duplicating as I frantically shake my head to dispel anything and everything horrible from my thoughts.

I open my eyes, dazed, as Peren open the door. My eyes meet hers from the floor and for a second I feel in a realm of my own, away from this terrible place. The momentary bliss is snatched as my ears make no sense of her words, yet my eyes follow her movements as she takes me into her arms on the carpeted floor.

My eyes flutter to her mouth as her hands tighten around the sides of my head and come away bloody. I can't think yet I watch her movements blankly, her disbelief at my blood on her hands, the horror in her eyes, the helplessness plastered over her features.

I release any hold I have on the ground and collapse forward, into her chest, hoping for a better life, another chance.

The words start coming to me as my mind clears, unplugging my ears.

"What did you do to yourself? Oh my God, Ty!"

I can't tell her. What would she think? She's got enough on her plate already. I've got to keep up my demeanour, my strong persona. I will face injustices in life and I have to keep going. For myself and Peren.

"I-I don't know," I play up my condition, eyes fluttering, lightly swaying my body just enough so Peren can feel the movement, as if I'm dazed. "I blacked out and it... happened."

Peren has cloth in her hand that I never noticed before and wipes the blood off of my head, which is keeled slightly away from her neck. "Right on reaping day, huh? We better not be late." she says playfully, trying to make me feel better, which helps.

I let a light smile as she turns my head to face hers and plants a kiss on my forehead. "You're okay?"

"Yes," I answer, trying my best to return a sort-of smile. I can feel my face red and sore from screaming and crying and bleeding and I doubt it looks good. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Let's go then, come on."

Peren rises effortlessly from her cross-legged sitting position and pulls me up gingerly, making sure I'm not hurt again. She takes me into one more hug before we open our door again, because while the reaping is a somewhat new experience for me, we both know the journey to the square isn't pleasant.

I exhale, looking at my sister as she turns and opens the door. I try and read her face but all I get is a confused bunch of emotions; terror, bravery, calmness, pride. They don't mix and I can see it in a flurry of detail on Peren's face.

We step through the door and see what we expected; lines of Peacekeepers in and out the door, herding the kids together in a single line while our guardian Mrs. Rausch looks on, doing well to hide her fear.

Mrs. Rausch is a lovely old lady who devoted her life to caring for orphans and children struck by tragedy many years ago. Her hair has turned from a fruitful oak brown to a dark grey quickly, the older kids say. Jimmy likes to joke that it was his doing, but we all dispel the notion quickly.

We shuffle forward, taking in our surroundings. Peacekeepers on either side of me, all brandishing batons and guns, seemingly staring me down every step I take; I can't help but feel intimidated. There's no use going to hold Peren's hand however, she's gone behind me, keeping both eyes on me at all times, I presume.

In all of Ultraboy's courageousness, Peacekeepers are a formidable opponent. They show no emotions whatsoever and will kill our people on the spot for such petty things; stopping to smell flowers during a reaping walk, helping an old man get up and taking too long, even whispering during the Treaty of Treason, which is ironic considering they make no attempt to mask the noise of their gunshot and it ends up being a hundred times louder than a whisper.

I stare blankly at the shirt of the boy in front of me, watching the creases shift as he shuffles along, hands in pockets. I regret wearing a blue shirt, compared to everyone else in white, brown and black, I stand out.

We're eventually out of the unkempt garden of the children's home and join the parade of bodies marching down the dirt road toward the village. Here, only important towns get to be named. Our general area is known as the Graveyard, referencing the many decaying freight trains that reach the end of the tracks and are left to die here. Rust takes them over and in a couple of years so does the foliage. Sooner or later they become a playground for the kids that live around this place.

We don't grow much around here, only enough to feed the kids in the homes and even then not all of us are fed. I'm quite accustomed to hunger from the few months that Peren and I scavenged around at night, still living in our home in the village, trying to make ends meet without alerting the authorities.

We'd normally be able to pick up some stuff out of the bins of the few food stores and I'd occasionally go to the markets, the weekly gathering of the few farmers of the area. They'd set up huge stalls to sell their stock, which were usually crowded. I'd nip in under the crowds and nab some fresh produce to stuff in my pockets. Most kids don't notice me because of my stature, let alone adults. I didn't like it, but we had to do it to survive.

We're out in the open fields now, the dirt road narrowing between the overgrown weeds. It's become overcast since I woke and I fear it's going to rain by the time we arrive at our fully-exposed square.

When we do, around half an hour later, the mood is gloomy. Peacekeepers continuously prod people in the back as they go past them, reacting to any murmur of dissent with a hit of the baton. Far ahead they yell threats mixed with orders as we dissipate into eight lines; one for every age and one for the young kids, adults and elderly.

Peren and I don't have enough time to console here and if we tried we run the risk of death or serious injury, so I reach back for her hand as we shuffle past the last prodding Peacekeeper. She takes my hand, squeezes and kisses the top of my head. Any words are dangerous, let alone in front of armed Peacekeepers.

Peren slides her hand on my shoulder as a sign that she's leaving me and joins the fifteens line at the eight-way split. I keep going in the line I'm already in, considering I'm twelve and the twelves are to the very far left of the square.

The fingerprint station backs onto stone buildings that highly contrast the blinding white of everything Capitol, including the Peacekeeper manning the table.

Peren briefed me days ago about this procedure, strongly indicating that it wouldn't hurt. Judging by the ash-haired boy ahead of me and his jerky reaction, I beg to differ. Of course, I'm not scared of a little prick to my skin, just wary.

We're all about the same size, I find, as the twelves all waddle forward one-by-one, heads poking out to a side, watching the blood being drawn. We're all in the same boat here, I remember, so of course we're interested, no, careful.

Then I remember we're not all in the same boat. The Quell twist- my God how could I forget?

 _As a reminder to the Districts that Hunger Games season will never escape them or their offspring, the reaping pool will be comprised of children with birthdays spanning from the seventh to the thirty-first of May, the exact timeline of this years' Games._

As the line in front of me shortens, I notice a trend. All of the kids that I've watched so far have received a green flash on the screen situated in front of the Peacekeeper. Then, they all manoeuvre a sharp right and are herded into a roped off section, away from a select few other twelves.

The word 'May' circles around in my mind and my stupid brain finally realises the kids who get green aren't May-born...

They're safe.

The line in front of me is dissipating. I strain my eyes and quickly count the number of twelves who aren't roped off;

 _One, two, three, four..._

There's only five.

I'm doomed.

 _No you're not, there's other cities around Six, you'll be fine!_

My brain tries to compensate it's fear for logic, but how many May-born twelves are in those cities? There can't be many!

My mind falters and thinks of something happy, trying to distance itself from the impending danger of both the desk ahead and the reaping itself. The thought it comes up with is of Peren, but of course that doesn't work.

She's in a similar situation!

I search for the third line along from us and strain my eyes until it's painful to see what lies behind the blood station.

I can't correctly say if it's eighteen or nineteen, but it's more than what lies ahead for me.

 _Peren's safe, don't worry!_

Yeah, Peren's safe but I'm not!

I'm hyperventilating now, my chest shifting up and down with my swift breaths. There's only four in front of me now and not a single one has flashed anything other than green. May-borns can't be this rare!

"Hey, kid!" My eyes flicker to the right and my fists tighten, an impulse of my body sensing danger. A masked Peacekeeper struts through the gap next to our line and points his shiny white glove at me.

My heart stops beating.

He stares at me for a moment, and I watch his green eyes flutter to my fists. I can only wonder what he assumes. Am I dangerous? Am I scared? Am I special needs?

Sure looks like I am, my chest is still up-heaved, ribs reaching up to my chin. I dare not breathe until he does something. I've never had a bad experience with a Peacekeeper, but God forbid I've seen them happen.

"What's your problem?" His accent reeks of District Two, I can tell from the nights we've been forced to watch Hunger Games interviews. Strong, tasteful, fleshy. The epitome of a stonemason.

"I-I-uh..." I don't want to answer him, and I don't even know if I can answer him. I still haven't breathed for the last fifteen seconds, so I let my chest drop and sneak a few short huffs through my open mouth as I stare at him bluntly, indicating confusion.

"Stop overreacting or you'll come with me! Got it?"

I nod with the speed of lightning and my fists release.

He points forward and I divert my head away from him, listening to his boots clop against the cobblestone as he walks away. Suddenly the line seems to move quicker, two more kids moving forward and to the right, leaving me next after a kid wearing a grey jacket. I flash my eyes around, trying to focus on something so I don't look so guilty when the Peacekeeper lays his judgmental eyes on me.

No doubt he's already taken note of me s a possible criminal considering my behaviour and interaction with the Peacekeeper from Two. Probably going to use some nifty device to increase to pain of the incision into my finger.

That's the Capitol I know.

Grey jacket kid gets green, oh God, and I'm next. I step up to a metal plate in the ground- maybe to weigh me or something -and look awkwardly at the Peacekeeper, waiting for instructions.

"Dominant hand?"

"L-Left."

"Left index finger."

I stretch my left index out to his beckoning hand, which he grabs with the force of a freight train. I'm yanked toward the table, pulling my feet forward, nearer to the Peacekeeper; where I'd rather not be.

He takes a slender, metal tool from the table and I brace a little, expecting the worst. I feel the sharp tip dig under my skin and pull back up, leaving a fast-growing circle of blood on my pointer.

Again my finger is yanked toward this Peacekeeper, turned over and placed on a small pane of glass. The "glass" lights up instantly with my full name, place of birth, residence and, most importantly, date of birth.

The Peacekeeper drops my finger and taps the panel with his own. My birthday, May thirteen, enlarges in all its glory.

Then the screen goes red.

The Peacekeeper seems alarmed and he's not the only one. My breath jumps yet again and my heart catches in my throat as he turns to me, grey eyebrows shifting diagonally, lips pursed. He almost looks grim.

"Please, go straight ahead. Follow the wall."

I receive his words and take a split second to look into his eyes and I see not a Peacekeeper, but a man. A man in his fifties, slicked black hair greying. I imagine his life, most likely with a wife and children back in District Two or even the Capitol, the grave expression he wears now rare to ever see at home.

I nod, breathe in and we keep our gazes as I turn to meet my fate.

I'm truly doomed.

* * *

 **There we have it ladies and gentlemen, Tydarius Petrit of District Six who does indeed end up reaped. Our first POV by the way! I will try my hardest to get as many of these out as I can while I can. Other than that,** **we've filled all the slots! We're officially underway now! To all who've submitted I thank you, along with all those who read, follow, favourite and review, it means a lot to me.** **I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this chapter, because there's more to come! Stay tuned and once again, thank you for reading!**


	4. Life Itself: Puma

Puma Barnes, 15, District 10:

"Leo, Lynx, Jag, Puma, get up!"

Does that always have to be the first thing we hear everyday? Talk about a rude awakening.

My eyes protest as I open them, becoming all heavy and filled with gunk. Goddamn rheum.

I study my surroundings, laying on my back as always. Arched wooden roof, cobwebs galore, strong smell of mildew... ah yes, the attic. The luxurious residence of my three brothers and I.

I rise slowly, allowing every inch of my body to stretch before I stand. I find Jaguar and Lynx are still asleep but Lionel, or Leo for short, has risen already. No wonder, it's April twenty-sixth; he turns twenty today. In fact, I think this calls for a round of birthday punches.

Or not. Today's reaping day and I gotta play up my innocence.

See, the whole thing about the May-born kids being reaped? Well, Ten's not a very big place in terms of population, so I don't fancy my chances, being born on May seven.

Frankly, if I get reaped, this whole gag I do is practice essential to my survival; every day I try to be a different person. One day, I'll play the part of a bubbly and bouncy little girl, and the next day I'll act like the meanest person in the universe.

It's all practice for the day I'm reaped; it allows me to choose how I want to play those Capitol fools, and my opponents.

I've been practicing the innocent little girl act since I was actually little. It all started when my parents wouldn't let me partake in the family butchering business because I was a little girl, too young to see such atrocities as some cow guts. So, as retaliation to them not allowing me to chop up something, I put on some voices just to annoy them.

From there I went out of my way to play my character and after a while I began to range in personas. Soon enough my parents allowed me to join the family trade, but that didn't stop me. I realised from when I started that these acts could come in handy someday, especially when we live in a world with the Hunger Games.

My instincts were to not just train mentally but also physically. I began doing extra butchering, enhancing my skills with a cleaver and other fine tools. My dad took me fishing a couple times in the creek down from our residence and I learnt not only how to catch fish but also how to skin and gut them.

My brothers and I made makeshift targets from bits of tree and taught ourselves intricate rope designs and manoeuvres which we used to haul down the huge oaks with ease. We used our targets to throw knives, and while I wasn't as good as my brothers I was still competent. I'm better at handheld knife combat anyway.

We left some of the oaks standing and used some of Dad's many axes to practice with, slowly indenting the old beast until it fell clean in the field. My brothers found axe combat boring, but I love it. A good axe and Puma Barnes has to mean death for anybody who tries to pull a fast one on her.

I soon left the weapons in the shed and started training my body. I run at sunset, doing as many laps as possible before sundown, constantly trying to improve my stamina. I lift the few heavy objects we own, usually the biggest, thickest cleavers or the couple of anvils stocked downstairs, but not too much, otherwise my little girl act would be foiled by my ginormous muscles.

Mother passed on her knowledge of plants from her years as a botanist studying the biological diversities of Ten; which are most common in different environments, which are edible, which are deadly and which edible ones are extremely similar to poisonous ones and how to tell the difference.

I wrote it all down in a little notebook I keep under my pillow, but I doubt they'd let me take that into the games. Just a few years ago a girl had her token, a little book, confiscated for having notes about the seasons kept blatantly on the first few pages. It wasn't like she was concealing anything, but the Capitol didn't care.

I think she died in a heatwave.

"Happy birthday Leo! You're an old man now!" I've waddled over to Leo and wrapped my arms around him, nestling my head into his stomach. He's pretty tall compared to the rest of us, takes after Dad.

"Do you mean it?"

I gasp aloud. "What do you mean do I mean it?"

"This isn't just one of your acts?"

I gasp again, creasing my face to act as if I was hurt by his distrust. "Of course not, Leo! How could you think such a thing?"

"Yeah, whatever." He doesn't buy it, prising me away from his hip. I wouldn't believe it either, if I had to deal with it for five years.

The Capitol, however, haven't dealt with it for five years. I grin as I barrel down the stairs after him, pushing him forward squeezing through the open crack.

"Good morning, Mommy! What's for breakfast today?"

My mother stands at the sink, wiping up four plates and four glasses which I can tell are about to be used imminently, as long as Jag and Lynx get up sometime soon.

"You're in a good mood," she says, "Have you been annoying Leo?"

"Of course not!" Leo and I both mutter different answers at the same time, my sharp tone cutting off his distinctive, dreary bellow. With a roll of her eyes, mother looks away.

"Happy birthday, Leo dear."

"Thanks Mom."

"I'm hungry!" I interrupt, dragging out the vowel sounds to increase my innocence.

"Well, why do you think you're up so early?"

"It's reaping day!" I say with joy, something the real Puma would never do.

"No, we're making our own breakfast."

"Does that mean I have to set the table?" I whine, pressing my hands together in a praying pose.

"Yes, now run along, I know I'd like to eat before the Peacekeepers arrive, wouldn't you Puma?"

I groan, something a little girl probably shouldn't do, and grab the tablecloth from the bench. Our kitchen looks like any other in our little town; comprised mainly of wood and beige paint. Our dining table takes up the majority of the room near the stairs leading down, where our parents sleep by the old furnace.

Any other rooms in the house are devoted to our business of butchery; the freezer where we keep our meat and any other frozen food, the stockroom where we keep our tools and materials and our huge safe where we store our earnings.

Of course, the front of the house is a storefront, our front door the main entry. Glass cabinets that hold round metal plates are lined horizontally at the end of hall, washed everyday to perfectly showcase our freshly cut meat.

Heads turn eagerly when the crack that usually comes with any door in the house opening is heard as Dad, chef's hat and all, bursts through the backdoor holding a fresh platter of fruit.

"Order up everybody!"

"Tone it down, Pickett darling."

"Ah, my lovely wife and... only two of my children?"

Mother looks up from the dishes and finally figures out two of her kids are missing. "Jaguar, Lynx! Get up!"

Groans are heard from above as the halls are filled with mother's shout.

"Ah, Leo! You're good to take that sirloin over to Mr. Ankersen?"

"Yeah sure, where'd you leave the package? Freezer?"

I already know what's coming when I turn to reach for the condiments and I know I'm right when I hear Dad plonk down the fruit on the table and call me by my name.

"Yeah, as soon as you walk in and to your right. Puma! Why don't you come help me with something?"

I smile slightly, but shake it away when I turn to Dad and say, "Of course!" with a cheesy grin that scrunches up my face.

I'm sure they know what they're in for; it's not like my family turn a blind eye to my devious annoyances, but this is a prime opportunity to irritate my family and practice a reaction to something very prevalent in the Capitol: weapons.

I trail Dad out the backdoor and onto our tiny deck area, where we store only two wooden tables we use for our practices. Laid out on one is the rump of a cow, one of the hundreds we own or receive packaged from the factories out in the sticks where they can graze free in the open fields with no towns to disturb them.

They live good lives.

Either way, our family has been trained in this business since the beginning of Panem, possibly earlier. We're not going to cease our livelihood to satisfy the feelings of beings that can't even articulate their fear of death!

Believe it or not, even with the strict regime we live under, there are still idiots who protest about Ten's industry of breeding, raising and killing livestock.

They're usually dealt with by the Peacekeepers, but they're still an annoyance. As much of an annoyance as me?

Probably not.

"Now, Puma I want you to take this here knife and-"

"Dad, I'm scared of knives."

He ignores this plea and thrusts the knife into my hand. It's a long, sharp one, serrated all along the blade. Puma herself would be itching to get into the job, but not this time.

"Now, start here," he takes my hand and positions it along the netting we use to outline our cuts. "I'm sure you know what to do after you dig in."

"Dad! I'm scared!"

"What do you mean you're scared? You've done this plenty-a time before!"

"I don't like holding knives," I lower my voice, looking down, out of his sight to squeeze tears out of their glands to up the ante on my act. "Can't mom do this?" I whimper, looking back up at my extremely confused father. "Or Leo? Or Lynx? Jag?"

Grey clouds roll overhead as Dad stands there, confused at the tears rolling down my face. This is good. If I can fool my own father so easily, who knows how well I'll do in the Capitol?

Dad's dumbfounded expression weakens as he goes to get one of my brothers. I smile and brush my fringe away from my eyes. I love my different personalities, on the contrary to my family. I turn to follow my father but I hear both him and mom whispering.

"What's Puma's problem? She just had an ordeal about cutting the rump!"

"Oh Pickett, you know she likes to play games, the 'a different personality a day' thing. It's her training for the games. You should be more worried for her, with the twist this year. She is your daughter."

I presume Dad dismisses this notion with a wave of his hand and a roll of his eyes, two gestures common for him to perform when he's told off by mom. While I am his daughter, being involved in the family business and doing things in my spare time with him, he's got better things to do than worry, which I respect.

I decide to wander in and annoy mom, she normally does better than Dad in my trials and I enjoy challenging myself; just look at all the training I do for a pageant I may not necessarily be picked for.

"Oh mom," I say, muffling my voice as I throw my arms around her and press my mouth into her shirt. "I'm scared for today, I really am!" A statement which holds some truth; while I am scared like any normal child should be for a reaping, I'm also well-trained, an advantage I hold dear. As well as my training, I have a whole strategy worked out, which I have also trained for.

I'm like a Career at this stage.

With a loving hand around my head, I get my reply. "Sweetheart, you'll be fine, I assure you."

"What if I'm not?" I turn up the sharp breaths for this one, indicating my distress.

"I promise you will be. Even if you are reaped, you've trained yourself. You're ready, aren't you?"

"Oh she's ready alright, she's playing you right now Mom."

Damn it Lynx!

I remove my head from mom's waist and peer around to death glare my eighteen-year-old brother. I get a smirk in return as he snatches an apple from the fruit platter and bites into it hard.

"Yes, I'm ready."

"Technically speaking, she's not even dressed yet, so I don't think that counts as ready, Mom."

Jag!

Mom turns to me and stares with those caring eyes of hers. "He's got a point darling. Go and get dressed."

With a loud groan and a final death stare I share between both of the brothers present, I head back upstairs to change.

When I arrive in the attic, I note two beds specifically show signs of a struggle to get out of bed, with white sheets sprawled over the creaky wooden floor. Probably not a coincidence they both belong to Lynx and Jag.

I trot over to my bedside and retrieve the white dress I hung there last night, preparing for this morning. Unlike my brothers, I pride myself on being organised, although I may have gotten a little forgetful this morning, being the only family member to not dress yet.

I change and make my bed, anything to drag out the time until we leave considering my plans have been foiled. I trek over to the wardrobe the four of us share and squat down to reach into my quadrant.

I dig out an some white ballet shoes to match my dress and reach up the inside of the wardrobe wall to retrieve an old white hat I haven't needed to wear in a while. My hair's good enough I guess, even though it's a miracle I haven't gotten a bad case of bedhead today.

I prepare myself for what may lie downstairs but notice my token on my shoe-rack. A shiny assortment of colourful beads on a bracelet. I remember choosing it out at the markets last Sunday. Perfectly innocent, perfectly childish.

Of course, as much as I'd love to stash something in there- poison, a small, fold-out blade, something I could use -I can't, it's purely for cosmetic value.

I slap it on my left wrist and begin to walk down our rickety old stairs but jump when I hear a crack, thinking for a second they're going to cave in.

"Order up!"

Oh.

I'm pleasantly surprised to see Dad keeping the door open with his left leg and balancing on the other holding cooked rump steak. Lynx and Jag are already at the table, not bothering to help Dad, so I join them.

"W-Wha..." Dad can only start before Mom sighs and takes the roast off his hands.

We each receive a death glare each from Dad as Mom puts the roast in front of us on my neatly set table. We all jump this time when the loudest crack of all echoes through the halls. We all turn to the right, peering down the hallway, knowing such a sound could only come from the front door.

Leo's floppy brown hair covers his face as he walks into our line of sight.

"You were going to eat without me? On my birthday?"

The excuses start flooding in.

"Of course not!"

"Not at all!"

"We were just preparing!"

Leo pulls a seat out and huffs in exasperation. "Yeah, right."

Everyone sits and enjoys a hearty meal of steak and fruit. While we may be well-off compared to others, the ridiculous amount of steak we have eat because we plainly have it is tiring. Like right now, eating _steak_ for _breakfast_.

If you take some orphan off the street and offer them steak for breakfast and they'll look at you like you're a crazy person, completely ignoring the free meal on offer, I promise you.

The fruit was a nice addition to the charred old cow. All the apples, pears and grapes were more stuff we picked up at the markets yesterday. All the fruit-growers of Ten have been travelling around recently, trying to sell off their stock before harvest ends so they can afford to replant for next harvest and we took advantage of that while we could.

Lynx tried to squirt a grape at me but it backfired, spraying cold juice all over his white button-up. We brought out a cupcake for Leo's birthday and he didn't wish for anything, as usual.

When we were finished, the four of us left our parents to clear the plates and went outside to wait. We were early enough to see the Peacekeepers turn the corner into our lane, trail of people shuffling behind them. Our impulse was to yell at our parents to hurry up.

Soon enough, we were off with the herd, as per usual every reaping. Ever since the unsuccessful second rebellion all those years ago, restrictions have been tightened. Now entire townships are publicly walked to reapings, with any disruptions at the reapings punishable by whippings and any opposition to the Hunger Games or the Capitol means certain death for the perpetrators.

Put bluntly, it's a tightly run show.

Our house is only a few streets away from the square for our town, considering we don't have enough to own a farm and get away from this place. What I would give to not live under this sick regime, to live free.

The fields that surround our village are golden with crops, grassy green fields extending yonder until the horizon. Dark clouds loom overhead, deviously waiting for us all to pack into the square just to soak us, just like that play we studied in school.

If I wasn't from Ten, I bet I could be an actress, all high and mighty in the Capitol. My skills are so good I can fool the people who raised me! The audiences in the Capitol would be ants at my feet. Actors and actresses are highly prized, regularly featuring on the Flickerman family's many talk shows and as guest appearances once Hunger Games season rolls around every year.

Hunger Games season. Right.

 _As a reminder to the Districts that Hunger Games season will never escape them or their offspring, the reaping pool will be comprised of children with birthdays spanning from the seventh to the thirty-first of May, the exact timeline of this years' Games._

What sort of a Quell twist is that? It's the same thing as every other year just with a specific group of kids and a set timeline! There should be triple the kids for the amount of times the Districts tried to rebel and fell flat on their asses! Come on, who thought of this stuff?

The square is as bleak as ever, barely decorated like every year. You'd think the Capitol would put some more effort in, but no. Good old Capitol, not caring about anything.

Our family has little time to wish each other luck, as is our little tradition. I grab my mother's hand and squeeze, same with my father. My brothers, they're such birds of a feather they don't need my well wishes.

I separate from the huge pack once we flood into the old, arched gates that guard the city centre. The Justice Building lies about a hundred metres in front of me and I dawdle a little to see who's going to form the line for the fifteen-year-olds.

I recognise the boy who steps up the plate first. Isodoras Rhein, just another quiet kid in my class, silently working each day, avoiding attention at all costs. I swiftly move in behind him, not wanting to be involved with the Peacekeepers converging on us, pistols cocked and screaming for us to get in formation.

More fifteens shuffle in behind me, possibly expressing the same desire to live as I. Soon, our line is full, Peacekeepers spying like vultures as Isodoras steps forward and onto the famed metal plate, which apparently scans your entire body from the feet up to assure you're in peak physical condition.

Isodoras eyes down the Peacekeeper after providing his right hand for the blood spill. The Peacekeeper confirms his credentials and the screen flashes green, a result I may not get being born on May seventh.

Isodoras is instructed to turn right past the desk, which he does, brown jacket flapping in the wind. My brain relays to my emotions that this may be the last time I ever see that boy, which is a frightening prospect. I didn't really know him, but what exactly does the future hold for me?

I can barely keep my hat on by the time I stick my arm out to the Peacekeeper, my hair flapping around awkwardly. Seems I was wrong about the weather forecast.

However, that's the least of my worries as my blood is drawn and placed down on the clear plate by the Peacekeeper's chest. She's young, maybe about thirty with black hair and bright red lipstick. My mind contrasts between her possible origins based on those features as I wait for my results, which I've already predicted.

Unlike most other hypotheses I've ever made, especially for science class, I'm proven right, with the Peacekeeper's screen flashing as red as the Peacekeeper's gloss. On the inside I sigh, however I'm somewhat satisfied by the result.

For once, I'm different. I join a group of people who are not the norm. Even if it is based off of birth month, it provides some closure to myself as a person. The question that I have been repeatedly unable to answer since that day I undertook personas floods to my mind again.

'Who am I?'

As I walk forward, following the rope as instructed, I'm yet again unable to answer. Those many years of acting as someone whom I'm not have plagued my mind and now, only my core values remain with me.

Puma Barnes.

Who is she?

What will she amount to?

Will she ever find the answer?

* * *

 **Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Puma Barnes of District Ten. I hope you enjoyed Puma, I found her substantially harder to write than Ty. It's possibly my own self-criticism, but I hope you don't find most of this chapter meaningless blather. If you do, be sure to mention it in a review so I can change it for the next tributes.**

 **I'm not too sure if this is a quick update per se, I bet other authors have done quicker than two days between chapters, but I'd like to possibly keep up this routine of a chapter every two-three days as long as I can, and I hope that suffices for you readers.**

 **If you're wondering why I named this chapter "Life Itself", well it's the name of a song and I thought it was appropriate for the questions Puma finds herself asking.**

 **On another note, thank you all for the kind reviews! I really appreciate the praise I've received so far, it makes me smile to see everybody enjoying the POVs. This is getting to be a rather long author's note, so I'll finish up now. Until next time, thank you for reading!**


	5. Golden: Archan

Archan Stiver, 16, District 10:

The golden fields of Ten glisten in the early morning light, beckoning me.

Here, we tend to our livestock, grow grain to feed our children and spend a majority of our lives. Most towns like ours are surrounded by the plentiful fields that have existed for many years. Old, stone structures completely engulfed by gold; the horizon, the fields, the clouds, made golden when they shield the sun.

I've lived golden my whole life, travelling between foster homes up and down the huge field that is Ten. I began to live with Silas and Derrina age thirteen, becoming the newest addition into their mainly foster family.

Silas is infertile, the discovery of the fact dealing him a huge blow as a young man who only wanted a loving family to save him from this cruel world. He retired a little while back and adopted Hearth before Collina, Trevont, Acallina and myself.

I remember my first few days with Silas, spent up the country near a shack on the river where we told stories about each other. I didn't have many good stories to tell, living a life of anonymity in a children's home up until that point. Sure, I had been fostered a couple times, but I liked Silas more than anyone before him.

He shared stories of his work as a glazier in the Capitol when tensions were low, crafting glass in Ten and manning the deliveries into the big city, usually by train. He kept a relatively low profile, to avoid public shame just for being from Ten.

With no previous exposure to the Capitol, living isolated in my own childhood, I was amazed. I asked why and Silas explained the evil of the Capitol.

Having only been to one previous reaping with the next coming in a few days, my perspectives on life changed. Silas told me that I was fostered into a family of rebels, devoted to break free from the Capitol's unfair reign.

We traveled back to the homestead that afternoon, sun setting and mind dwelling on my future. Was I to be a rebel?

Derrina held parties to exchange information, baking cakes and feeding friendly Peacekeepers to keep suspicion low. I decided I wouldn't be involved unless I was forced to. I never meddled in their activities.

Instead, I made a name for myself around town, meeting people and making friends, something I've been good at even in the foster homes. I quickly made acquaintance with the family next door to us, the Matsens.

The head of the family, Farrago Matsen, worked with Silas for many years crafting glass. Farrago has been retired for many years now and spends his time raising two foster children; Cotter and Yvonne.

Cotter and Yvonne are siblings, separated at birth from their estranged criminal parents. They were reunited in one of my own homes, far away from the township they now reside in. Farrago and his wife Maize fostered them both after the loss of their own two children to the Hunger Games and soon Silas and Derrina came for me.

I had already become great friends with Cotter and Yvonne so it wasn't a surprise when we forcefully made acquaintances of our foster parents, Silas hardly recognising his old friend after all the years. Farrago eventually bought the aging wood house next to ours in Derby, the name given to our general area, after the many animal derbies that take place in the surrounding fields.

I spend a lot of time with Cotter now, including this morning, where we stare into the open field, dressed already in our reaping clothes, which we were specifically told not to dirty.

"Come on!"

Cotter, as energetic as ever, darts into the field, stalks of wheat violently brushing against his sides.

We had running races at the foster homes and Cotter was always incredibly fast, faster than every other boy and girl. To this day, there's no way I can match his speed, but he slows down enough for me to set off nonetheless.

My feet take hold of my entire body as I barrel off the deck of the homestead after Cotter. The ground is surprisingly soft as I charge forward to him, black hair flapping over my forehead, smile plastered on my face.

My smile is transferred to him, a grin appearing on his face as I draw near. There's so much I love about Cotter- his eagerness, his fun-loving personality -my heart flutters when I'm around him.

Cotter's sharp blonde hair waves in the morning breeze and flaps violently as he charges at me. We've done this many times before, roughhousing in the fields. We collide, arms interwoven and pressing hard into each other's biceps. We struggle, our faces still grinning and creased from exertion. I slide my right arm out of the mess of limbs and go for Cotter's thigh, wrapping my hand around it and yanking it towards me as his left arm goes for my shoulder.

This manoeuvre catches Cotter off-guard and causes him to shift his body weight onto one leg and release his grip on my left arm and shoulder. I sweep my left arm out and around his other leg and pull, dumping him on the mushy ground and crushing a fair few stalks of wheat.

We laugh together as my hands search for his arms to pin him down all the while attempting to avoid his legs, thrashing about wildly. I'm dealt a blow to the thigh as Cotter rears up and throws me off of him, hitting the ground back-first.

It's a race to see who can get up first and claim the height advantage on offer, as the slower one of us is sure to be backed straight down again and at the mercy of the other. My legs scramble, trying to maintain a platform on which they can rise. Cotter rears into more wheat stalks and uses every limb he can to force himself to his feet.

My legs finally begin to work and I feel pain in my joints as I stumble to a standing position just in time for Cotter to knock me down again.

Flat on my back, Cotter takes my arms and pins them to the ground, crushing yet another wheat stalk and barely missing a ladybug. Knowing my arms are now out of action, I attempt to thrust my leg upward into any flesh it can find.

Unfortunately, Cotter anticipates this act and jams his knees into my shin, disabling any resistance.

We smile again, staring blankly into each other's eyes, noses millimetres from making contact. Cotter leans down and we kiss, his grip on my arms releasing slowly.

With a smirk, Cotter rears back onto his feet and offers a hand to help me up. I oblige and we look around to assess the damage we've caused. Cotter dismisses the many crushed stalks with a wave of the hand.

"Hauling grain we make more of a mess. Come on, we better get back to town."

I ruffle his hair and walk with him back to my family's homestead. The Matsen family estate is nearby, but we decide to see if my family has run off to the reapings yet.

I hop up the wooden steps past Silas' old rocking chair and tug open the wooden door that leads into our house from the back.

"Ladies first!" I gesture to Cotter, who scoffs and pushes me through the opening lightheartedly.

The wooden surrounds we find ourselves in are dimly-lit, meaning everyone's probably gone already. My heart drops a little, considering the Quell this year and how my birthday is on May fifteen, but I don't dwell on it for too long. The reaping has always frightened me but I'm strong enough to get through the Capitol's mind games.

 _What about their death games, Archan?_

"Well, I don't think they waited around for you, Arc."

"No shit dude."

"Hey, we could meet Tammora and Kansas soon, we should get a move on."

Well, there's no reason to stick around. "Yeah, let's go."

Cotter and I stride through my home, only stopping to raid the fridge and grab a slice of Derrina's famous lemon meringue pie before we're out the door and into the street.

The Peacekeepers take a while to arrive at our village, considering their outpost is such a fair way away, outside of Derby itself. The ones stationed around here are particularly brutal, enjoying bashing townspeople if they're walking too slow or the people that own the inns if they don't provide them with breakfast. Luckily for us, the Peacekeepers decide not to bother with our little township; the only real attraction here being the parties held by Derrina, which are occasional at best.

Ever since reaping day two years back, Cotter, Yvonne and I would meet up with our other friends, Tammora and Kansas, at the fountain that lies outside the square. If Peacekeepers question our residence there, we just say we're waiting for our parents, which has worked so far.

Considering we're the last town to the east of Derby, we have the largest square that holds most of Derby's population for the reapings. Of course, there are many more general areas in Ten, similar to the county system we learned of in school. I wasn't really paying attention that day, but I'm sure Tammora knows a ton about the subject.

Tammora Greco is a complete, out and out science geek. She is enthused by anything and everything science and gets the best grades out of anyone at our school by far. She says she doesn't like the other subjects, but spontaneously quiz her on any history fact or music note and she'll always get it correct.

Tammora doesn't have anything to worry about this year, her and Cotter both being born in December, when the golden fields are always rained out. Even if Tammora was reaped, I'd have full confidence in her abilities, being a wordsmith as well as physically strong and good-looking, a trait she could and would use to her advantage.

Our other friend, Kansas Field, looks a grade younger compared to us. He compensates for the height difference in personality, however, being incredibly lighthearted and funny. He's incredibly skinny, contrasting all four of his friends, and was born in February, so nothing to worry about for him either.

We meet Yvonne at Macaulay's Eatery on the way to the fountain, using the last of her money to buy a coffee, one of Yvonne's weaknesses. She has a terrible habit of spending her meagre earnings at the same place she works, all for some frothy drink that used to be popular with the masses.

"Any sugar, Yve?"

"Damn it Fray, you know I'm trying to slim down."

Fray Macaulay, grandson of Wretch Macaulay who started this business so long ago. Only a few years older than us, yet substantially more mature, owning his own business at eighteen.

"That's a no then."

"Please excuse my sister's horrible manners, Fray."

Fray smiles when he sees us, somewhat drowned out by Yvonne's half-hearted groan. "Mornin', you two. Heading to the fountain?"

"We were, until we saw Yve hassling you."

"I was not!"

Fray grins now, freckles pressed upward by his bulging cheeks. His hands move on their own, operating different machines without him needing to think or exclaim; it's muscle memory for him, running this café.

"Mind if I join you? Providing nobody comes within the next... twenty seconds approximately."

"Of course!" I answer without thinking, not that it matters; Fray's a great dude.

"Thank you kindly." I lean against the protruding brick bench that emits from Fray's window store. I watch in awe as his hands juggle both a full mug of coffee and a rag, wiping down the express machines used to crush the beans and combine both the milk and said crushed beans. Soon, he is finished and chucks the rag in the air, landing perfectly on his shoulder as he swivels and hands to cup to Yvonne.

"Your coffee, my dear."

Cotter laughs as Yvonne looks down for a moment and accepts her drink with a curt expression of thanks. She then turns to her brother and dismisses his laughter as I notice her cheeks are bright red.

Fray soon emerges from the door to his shop which he locks with a little key and we set off again, down the cobblestone lanes toward our destination.

Yve sips her coffee as I walk next to Cotter and Fray, who both swoon over my endangerment at this reaping. Fray says he was born on the first of June and goes on to tell us stories of how lucky he's been his whole life, not just on this occasion.

"Once, this guy trekked down through the town and came to my window as I was shutting up one night. I said we were closed but he insisted he'd pay extra for a drink. I wasn't gonna refuse that, now was I?"

Fray explains once he served the man a chai tea in a porcelain mug, the guy smashed it over Fray's head and jumped in the window to rob him while he was down.

"So there I was right, down on the deck, head throbbing like shit, and then I looked up to see my lock screen had come down with a piece of mug and fallen on his head, knocking him out clean. It's a heavy barricade, y'know."

Fray carried the man to the only Peacekeeper on duty that night and it happened to be Nasser, one of the friendliest on the job around here.

Dark clouds begin to roll in as we arrive at the fountain and spy Tammora and Kansas looking bored.

"Finally! God, my grandma would be quicker than youse!"

"Hey Kansas."

"My grandma's dead as well!"

Kansas looked polished as usual, dressed in a black button-up, long grey pants and black boots with his trademark black hair neatly parted. His glasses are fixed onto his face, large and overbearing on his nose.

I note that Tammora was reluctant to greet us, which often means she's worried. Dressed in a black dress matching her black hair, I climb up to see her while the others make acquaintance with Kansas.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"What's the matter with you? You're born in December, nothing to worry about."

With a sigh she replies; "I'm worrying for you, idiot."

"Oh. Thanks?"

"Where'd you pick up Fray?" she replies, completely ignoring my questioned gratitude.

"His shop. He wanted to come."

"Yvonne wanted him to come too!" Cotter exclaims as he hauls himself up to our position on the fountain, sitting comfortably on the damp stone.

Sadly, Yvonne doesn't notice Cotter's comment, rather is helped to our position by Tammora and Fray, who climbs up eagerly.

"Come on, youse aren't gonna let me sit now?" Kansas throws his arms up as he resorts to standing, staring at our fully-packed ledge.

"Hey guys, look."

Fray points off into the distance where we can just make out the huge line of people snaking around the hills and flooding through the town gates.

"What, some divine intervention going on behind me? Huh? The sky parting? Gee, wish I could see it from down here!"

"Kansas, shut up. We're coming down, the Peacekeepers are here."

We all shuffle down two ledges and sit on the first stone shelf of the fountain, which is still not as near to the ground as Kansas.

"Say your prayers now, boys. Oh, and ladies."

"Kansas, why are we praying? The only person who should pray is Arc."

I throw a hurt glance toward Yvonne and turn away, focusing on the incoming batch of Peacekeepers and civilians.

"Yve, we are praying no Peacekeeper decides to kill us for being too slow into line. Ya- God, you finished your drink or what?"

"Chuck it in the fountain Yve, we gotta go."

"I'm not putting Fray's mug in the fountain, Cotter."

"It's fine Yve, they're cheap anyway."

We quickly depart the fountain in fear of confrontation and round the corner into the lane leading to the square. Easily the most beautiful part of town, old wooden homes decorated in fancy colours line either side of the boulevard; yellow, pink, beige, gold, light brown, they're only ended by the gates of the square; intricately carved metal which has diluted from gold to silver from years of sun and rain.

We shuffle to the left, taking time to huddle.

"Today's gonna be the last day I see Arc, gee."

"Yeah, fuck you too Kansas."

"I'm joking old buddy old pal! Best of luck, I'll miss ya."

"Kansas, not funny."

"Okay, what's your input to the situation Tammora?"

"I think we should all pray for Arc, or keep him in our minds, at least."

This is met with bouts of agreement from all except Kansas, who simply nods.

Tammora leads us into a silent prayer, everybody closing their eyes for me, for my safety. I close my eyes as well, dwelling on my life and the others and how I may lose them today.

I've never really been scared by reapings, but today is an exception. The pool is smaller, the odds, well, they're not in my favour.

 _But they've never been, have they? Silas and Derrina were right._

My family, Silas, Derrina, my foster siblings who spend every second moment they have around me; I may not see them again. The people that love me.

 _Cotter._

Cotter, my best friend, my love. I could be sentenced to death today. How would he cope?

I open my eyes and find everyone is still praying. I stare at him, the boy I love. What's going through his mind right now?

These people around me at this very moment, they appreciate me and care for me.

Cotter, the one I love. The boy who I met when I was alone and he made me feel like I mattered. The boy I want to spend the rest of my life with. Yvonne, his sister, a shy, kind girl who has always been accepting of me. Tammora, the first person to approach me in this town and hold out her hand to shake mine. Who organised this time to pray for me, who worries for me. Like a mother.

Kansas, the boy who feels he is so worthless he forces himself to be a comic in order to fit in. He cares about me, even if he is blunt and troubled. Fray, the seemingly simple worker who is only skilled at his trade, yet possesses a heart of gold and the utmost respect for everybody and a charm nobody can match.

These people are my true family. My entire life I've sat in a home and waited to be observed and deemed fit to join a family when my family is right here, in this very square at this very moment.

As I open my eyes, they feel heavy with the love I feel for those around me at this moment.

"Thank you all."

I can't bring myself to say much more and drop my head, composing myself.

The Peacekeepers storm in, leading the hundreds, possibly thousands of civilians into the barely-decorated square. I make eye contact with everybody, as a means of recognition and a signal that we should disperse.

"Amen."

Kansas is the first move away, uttering the word as he places hand on my shoulder and goes to join the line. Next is Yvonne who nods at me, her deep blue eyes expressing her support for me. Tammora comes and hugs me quickly, fearing any spying Peacekeepers. Fray smiles weakly at me and nods, which is the best he can do considering this is a dangerous time to use words, despite Kansas' proclamation.

Lastly, there is Cotter.

I step up to him and turn my head slightly to the right to assess the scene. Peacekeepers hidden by the flood of people as I expected.

I stare into Cotter's green, green eyes.

"I'll see you after the reaping, hey?"

I consider this for a moment. Will he really see me after the reaping?

"Of course."

Without any worry for punishment in this unjust country, Cotter kisses me on the forehead, his soft lips remaining there for as long as he dares.

"No goodbyes today, okay?"

"Okay."

With that remark and a chill up my spine, Cotter departs and I stand there momentarily, reflecting.

I feel distressed.

It's a feeling I haven't felt in a long while.

"Hey! Move it along! You're not a rock!"

The _click_ noise that comes from the cocking of a gun enters my right ear as I stand, not wanting to move.

My feet disobey my mind, walking me away toward the sixteens line, my face blank.

I lift my head enough to count to the fifth line along and probably direct my feet in that direction, caring not for anything but the thought of Cotter as my feet drive me to my fate.

 _Get yourself together, Archan!_

I enter the line, snapping out of my trance. I can't let this day change me out of fear.

Not Archan Stiver.

The line isn't too long and is moving rather quickly compared to others. I grab my face and press against my eyelids, making sure I'm not dazed anymore. I can't afford to be someone who I'm not.

The kid in front of me is one I don't recognise and is annoying me with his fidgeting, constantly moving his hands to his thighs and sharply moving his head, cracking his neck.

A part of me wants to tell him that could be fatal while another part of me wants to confront him about being so fidgety.

 _Not with these Peacekeepers around, you'll be shot._

These outta town kids must be inbred or something, I swear.

 _That's the Archan I know._

The line moves forward at a faster pace as I spend my time mentally insulting the kids around me, just like the Archan I am. Soon enough, I'm nearing the front of the line and notice the green blips that continuously appear on the Peacekeeper's screen once a kid passes through.

The kids all follow a green line outlined along the metal plates on the floor once the blips show, leading them into a separate area from three kids my age.

 _You idiot! That's the May-borns!_

No.

Surely not.

It's pressed into my mind as I approach the desk that my fate can't be as golden as it seems.

* * *

 **Archan Stiver for you, everybody. This was a bit of a doozy to write, I kept questioning most things I wrote; little things like what Archan would call his foster parents to big things like whether or not to scrap what I've written cause I don't feel confident in my portrayal of his sexuality, which is** **bisexuality** **. I hinted at this when Archan complimented Tammora, but never outlined it specifically.**

 **Overall, this was a very testing chapter to write, explaining the extra day I took to write this, mainly because I did end up redoing a whole lot of it. I would appreciate some feedback on world building, if I may ask, because I feel like I complicated some things.**

 **Thank you again to my lovely reviewers, I'm humbled to have you all around. I guess you can expect having longer notes at the end of these chapters, I like to explain to you all how I felt writing these POVs.**

 **Other than that, thank you all for reading!**


	6. Tribulations: Avena

**The first of our reaping chapters, ladies and gentlemen! You may ponder about what the last few chapters were, well they were pre-reaping. This chapter and the next few will all be reaping chapters!**

 **Without any further ado, here's Avena!**

* * *

Avena Weitz, 16, District 9:

I hate this day.

I hate reaping day so much.

The day our country sends twenty-three children to die.

Life's hard enough in Nine, with all the field work we're required to do, the limited education we're entitled to receive and of course, the... blistering heat.

As I step outside now, onto the searing stone ground that burns my feet so much I have to jump back, I can feel the heat radiating down from the sky. I'm only dressed lightly, still in my pyjamas and barefoot, but it's almost overwhelming.

It can't be any later than seven-thirty, yet the sun breaks through the few clouds around it and lights up the sky, making everything a light yellow with some blue streaks.

It's a spectacle but I can't take it any longer after last summer.

I enter back through our front door, take a right and enter our kitchen.

"Fifteen killed in a mine collapse in Twelve."

"Again?"

"I wouldn't doubt the 'paper, dear."

My dad sits at the table reading the newspaper while my mom stands, fixing my older brother Faro's tie and straightening his shirt.

"Back so soon, Avena?"

"It's hot!" I say in a huff, walking toward the fruit bowl. Our family has always been well-off, with both my parents managing most of the fields in our area. We make enough during harvest so we don't take tesserae, which is uncommon for people in a place like Nine.

"Where's Bran?" I ask, peeling a banana.

"Upstairs, probably dawdling," answers Faro, my eighteen-year-old brother who's been spared fear this year, being born in January, unlike myself. Bran, my younger fourteen-year-old brother born in August, has also been spared.

"Bran?" I call as I stuff the last quarter of the banana into my mouth and drop the peel into the bin, eager for some nutrition before the reaping. I make my way up the stairs that run opposite the kitchen. Our house isn't huge but it's enough to comfortably house two adults and three kids.

I peek my head around the upward curve in the stairway, slowly searching for Bran. He may be getting dressed, so I'm careful. I take a step upwards and call his name again, only just landing my right foot on the top step before-

"Boo!"

He got me, but not overly well. I fall back a little, grasping for the handrail. I smile as I look at the bubbly young boy in front of me. Bran brings out so much joy in me and I strive to reflect that pure happiness to all I meet.

"You cheeky little monkey!"

I'm cut off by Bran's hysterical laughter that practically falls out of his mouth as I speak. I reach forward and tickle his sides until he steps out from behind the wall on my right, clutching at my fingers, laughing all the while.

"Come on, out! I need to get dressed."

"Fine!" Bram replies, still chuckling while his dark brown hair bounds up and down on his head as he jogs down the stairs. He's a mirror image of me, my little brother, matching all of my features; dark brown hair, brown eyes, small and skinny, while Faro best matches Mother, towering over the rest of his family just like her and sharing her auburn hued hair.

I close the door behind me and breathe, shaking away my light smile. In front of me is the room my little brother and I share so Faro can sleep well alone, getting well-rested nightly for his constant work in the fields, supplying our family with fresh food.

Last summer, both mother and father had to work the fields, deviating from their usual positions in management, and it really took its toll on father. He has arthritis of the back, Dr. Marlon said, and it kept him bed-ridden for a good six months. Now, he can move around the house, helping out with tasks needing to be done, but much more will spike a reaction from his joints and cause him a great deal of pain.

Dr. Marlon said he should be fine to work after this years' Hunger Games, but he doubts it. "I know my back better than any doctor," he says, "and it refuses to do anything for a few more months." Mother says he's just lazy, but he disagrees with that as well.

So he signed up Faro for tesserae to compensate for his lack of pay and Faro volunteered to work longer hours for more pay, to support the family. Bran gave up his room with Faro so our old soldier can get a good round of sleep before his extra work every day.

Bar today, of course, it being reaping day.

I spy my eye across the room, peering into my open closet before strutting over, my sights set on a particular mint-coloured skirt which I wear every occasion I get. I pick out a black tank top to match, constantly keeping the thought of hot summers fresh in my mind.

Some worn black sneakers to match and I lean into our little mirror, propped up on Bran's desk, to do my hair. Our bedroom is pretty cluttered, with Bran's clothes all over the floor, my shoes thrown around my bed and neither of our beds made. The pink wallpaper behind Bran's bright blue bed always makes me chuckle as I brush out the little imperfections in my wavy locks.

I would shower, but I woke up late as it is, so I begin to head back downstairs when I spin on my heels, realising I forgot my token. I quickly stride over to my bedside and open the top drawer, where it lays. A piece of mint green cast, signed 'Rye'.

Rye Coccia, the one and only crush I've had my whole life. The boy I'm going to be meeting this morning.

I stuff the cast piece in my pocket, slightly dwelling on how, if I am reaped today, the little thing will remind me of how I've gotten through tough times before and I can do it again, no matter where I am.

I hurry back downstairs, checking the clock on the journey down. Nearly eight, dang it!

I rush out through the kitchen. I never really go to the reaping with my family, once twice when I was twelve and thirteen, for obvious reasons. Every other year I've with friends.

I lean down to hug dad, newspaper clipping my face, then quickly drop into mother's arms, spouting such nonsense as "I'll be okay," and "there's nothing to worry about at all!" aloud.

Faro and Bran both give me a quick hug, recognising the danger I'm in and I brush Faro's messy hair back; it doesn't look good on him when it's all over the place.

"I'll see you all at the reaping, okay?"

Phrases of agreement fill the kitchen as I back away through the hall to the front door. With a final, "love you!" I exit into the harsh sun. The small holes in my old sneakers do me no good as I hop along the cobblestone lane our house lies on. I didn't bother wearing socks, which I quickly realise was a mistake, making a beeline for the shady stone pathways under the shopfronts that line the street opposite our house.

I see no evidence of a Peacekeeper parade either in town or imminent, meaning I'm somewhat on time as I blaze down the empty boulevards, heading toward our agreed meeting place, Olric's Bar.

Shrouded in shade from the overhanging extension off of the roof, Olric Amzoun weaves around the rickety wooden chairs that line his shop window. In his hands, gripped tightly, are a dirty plate with crumbs strewn across it and a bright blue mug.

My sneakers clop against the ground as I call out to him; "Good morning Olric!"

Olric turns, his heavily bearded face swaying in the hot morning breeze, chef's cap almost falling as his face turns from a look of surprise to a wide smile.

"Good morning Avena! Looking for Rye?"

I laugh somewhat nervously, but I answer with an upbeat tone. "Yes, I am!"

"Give me one second, sweetheart. I'll fetch him for you."

Olric shuffles into his shop and I hear a plonk as he presumably lays the plate and mug somewhere in his kitchen. I lean against the dated brick, crossing my legs over, giggling as I hear Olric yell.

"Rye! Avena's here!"

Olric isn't an angry man, so whenever he yells he's purely trying to gain the attention of another.

While Olric isn't Rye's father- he died two years ago -he is extremely close to Rye. The Amzoun family are friends of the Coccia family, and Olric looks after Rye and his two little sisters when their mother, Mazina Coccia, is out working.

Rye comes strolling out of the shop, looking for me and momentarily grinning at me as his two little sisters, Emmer and Quinoa, trail him out of the bar.

Dressed in a light blue button-down paired with his black work pants he's required to wear when he works the fields to provide for his family, Rye leans down to comfort his eight and six-year-old sisters, wearing adorable little white frocks.

"I have to go now, okay?"

Emmer and Quinoa aren't in hysterics but they're distressed by Rye's leaving. Their handsome big brother has been the rock of their family for nearly two years, taking care of both them and his overworked mother, with help from Olric when he can juggle both running a café and being of service.

Olric returns to his front door and observes the situation, smiling at Rye before he gently takes the hands of Emmer and Quinoa and leads them away, Rye blowing kisses at them as they look behind them.

Rye sighs and turns to me, still smiling sweetly. "Hey."

"Morning. Little troublemakers, hey?"

"Yeah," Rye answers, rising from his crouch and fiddling with his sleeves, which he has rolled up. "So, what's up?"

"I'm sure your answer will be far more interesting than mine," I reply with a smile as I take his hand and mine and squeeze as we set off down the boulevard. I don't want Rye to be nervous today. Not when both our lives are in danger.

"Okay, the sky."

"Oh, stop!" I say jokingly as Rye chuckles.

"It's true though!"

"Rye, that's the oldest one in the book!"

"Come on, you laughed... a little."

"No I didn't!" At least, I don't think I did.

"I have a point though, right?" Rye speaks through his smile. "Look."

"Rye, I know the sky's above me."

"No, look! It's beautiful."

I lift my head like I did earlier this morning and find the sky golden, streaked with not just blue but pink and orange. It's truly wondrous.

"It's pretty," I say softly.

"Thought it would be overcast on a day like today," Rye mutters, letting go of my hand and playing with his sleeves yet again.

I look over, intrigued, but keeping up my soft tone. "Are you nervous, Rye?"

He looks at me, brows creased lightly. "Not as nervous as I was last summer."

My heart flutters with his reply and I lean my head against his shoulder, stopping his fidgeting momentarily as we walk.

Last summer, where I was struck down with a broken leg and sat out all of summer break. Our worst summer by far in Nine, it reached upwards of a hundred degrees every day. It was so hot the field workers were collapsing and all I could do not to injure myself more was sit. Sit and lounge around at home with no cool air around me at all.

That particular day it was a hundred-and-twenty-one degrees, not an all time high for Nine but pretty damn close. I could hardly move my leg, my cast too heavy to move. It was heavy-duty, considering I'd broke my leg in two places and twisted my knee.

All of this stemmed from a running accident. We were using the fences that line our township as hurdles and stupid old me decided it would be a good idea to jump- no, _attempt_ to jump the highest one. I'm naturally athletic and have done hurdles for many years but I'm also small for my age, which makes me agile and a fast runner considering I'm carrying less body weight, but small stature doesn't mix well with a tall fence for a hurdle, as I found out.

Back to this particular day where I ended up getting heatstroke from not moving while lounging the boiling sun, watching the field workers from our back porch. It was Rye's lunch break when he quickly diagnosed me and tried everything he could to cool me down- leg elevated, ice on the back of my neck, fanning me with whatever was available -none of which worked.

I began throwing up into a bucket and Rye had no choice but to do something drastic. He picked me up, cast and all, and carried me to the hospital, running all three miles as I drifted in and out of consciousness, puking all over him when I was awake.

To this day I feel absolutely dreadful for this entire event because when we got there, Rye was so blue he collapsed, his heart barely beating and his breaths almost non-existent. We were both carried inside by the few good Peacekeepers of our area and Rye ended up in surgery, losing a kidney from the ordeal.

"Thank you for what you did."

"No problemo." Rye's stopped playing with his sleeves now and has his arm around me, my face resting against his upper arm, smiling.

"Did you bring a token?" I ask as we turn the corner into the final lane until the square, where I expect the Peacekeeper line has taken a detour and arrived before us.

Rye flashes his left wrist to me. On it lies a bracelet, made of beige string and decorated with white and black string, thinner than the bulky beige wrap. "Made by my sisters."

"Oh." I never thought to get anything from my brothers, nor give anything to them, not that they're at risk this year.

I feel my hand into my skirt pocket and dig out the small piece of cast Rye signed last summer. I'm reluctant to show it to him and instead hide it in my hand as I make up a lie. I don't want to be reminded anymore of that summer, let alone remind Rye of it.

"I- I didn't bring one this year."

Rye turns his head and smiles knowingly at me as I lift up my own head from his shoulder. His arm stays firmly planted around me until we reach the corner which we know houses angry Peacekeepers if we go around it.

One the corner lies an old wooden restaurant that has been long out of use, but the design still captivates me. It's Gothic, a description I learnt was popular for architects from the old times to plant on pointy, devious looking buildings. So much so, it became a design trend for a good few hundred years, way before Panem.

It's known as the Goth, based off of the word that goes with it. We stop outside of it and I hug Rye. He's seventeen and I'm sixteen, so we can't go into the lines together.

"It's going to be okay," I whisper as Rye sighs. He's nervous and my shoddy attempts at conversation haven't helped. I just want to make people smile, especially Rye.

"I know. I just- I, I- I'm worried. For you. For us."

"I'll be fine and so will you." I plant a kiss on Rye's cheek, momentarily fearful that he will back away, but he doesn't.

He acknowledges it, looking up at me and hugging me tighter. We exchange messages of support, hold hands one more time as we round the corner and let go, fearing what the Peacekeepers will make of us.

Public displays of affection aren't prohibited in Panem, but some Peacekeepers will take anything a citizen does as an infraction and beat them for it. I heard in more rebellious Districts that the beatings we receive here have been swapped for death.

We walk fast to join the huge line leading into the square, trying to attract as little attention as possible. Rye crosses to my right as we shuffle under the entryway to our enclosed square, which is just an open rhombus with shopfronts and a Justice Building inside it's walls. Legend has it is used to be a stronghold for a long-gone country, but those are just stories.

I reach for Rye's hand one last time and wave my fingers over it as we split to join our respective lines. With a glance at each other, we join the short parades toward the desk that seats a Peacekeeper, mask off.

It doesn't take long for the hot breeze to grasp my mind's full focus as the line continues to shuffle forward granting all but two people green flashes of light from the monitor stationed on the Peacekeeper's desk.

I'm reminded of last summer and I continuously push the thoughts away. After what feels like an eternity I'm at the front of the line, staring the young Peacekeeper in his cold blue eyes.

"Ma'am, your dominant hand?"

"R-right."

"Right index finger, if you may."

He's probably from District Two, I think as I provide him with my right pointer finger. His accent is too strong for him to hail from the Capitol.

A small part of me braces as he uses that incision tool of his to prick my skin and let a blob of blood form. He doesn't need to forcefully press my finger onto the little see-through plate on his desk as I do it for him, smiling at him while squishing the open wound into the black fingerprint outline.

I didn't expect for his monitor to read red as I remove my bloodstained finger and stare at my result, surprised. My name, date of birth, residence and more show up on the screen as the red flashes. Then, detailed in large, bold lettering is my birthday; May twenty-ninth.

"Ma'am I have to ask you to follow the red rope into the outline area, straight ahead of you, if you may. My best wishes."

My best wishes?

I wasn't really prepared for this. I walk forward, past a metal plate and follow the red rope into a quartered-off area that contains two kids, two sixteen-year-olds.

Is this the May-borns?

It can't be all of them. I stare down into Rye's section and am met with his confused glare. He stands next to four other seventeens. As I peer into the eighteens section I'm met with no people quartered-off.

I begin to panic.

The lines don't have many left in them, is this all of us? All of the May-borns? Oh my- I turn and look down the rows to my left. The fifteens have-

"Two, five, two, seven."

I whisper the numbers softly, then they begin to echo in my head. Two in the fifteens, five in the fourteens, two in the thirteens and seven in the twelves.

I look around frantically, there are few girls, none even surrounding me here in the sixteens. Time passes so quickly as my world spins around me, imminent danger taking me over.

"Attention, everybody."

Who is that?

The world stops moving sharply and I'm fixated toward the Justice Building. I barrel to the front of the rope, as near as I can get to the stage where Mayor Lucan taps the microphone with his fingers.

He's dressed as he usually is; dashingly. In a black suit and black tie with black pants and black loafers reaching down to the stage. His comb-over is impeccably contoured, not even moving in this strong breeze.

He chuckles as he begins, "Welcome! Welcome all to yet... another... reaping day." With every word after 'all', he acts as if he is falling to the ground, drooping down as he utters each word.

"Right! I'm sure you're all as eager as I am to get started!"

No.

"I mean, the quicker we start the quicker we can all scramble, y'know what I mean? Huh?"

There's no laughter or agreement that waves across the audience.

"Well, at least I know what I mean."

The man is unpopular throughout Nine, but is a known Capitol associate, so he keeps his job and tries to gain our respect by joking, especially at times like now.

"Now, the Treaty of Treason. I'm sure you all know how it goes, so here we go."

I tune out as a video plays on the few television screens scattered around the stage and the Mayor reads out a speech that coincides with the rising gladiators that feature in the video clip.

My mind decides to tune right back in as Mayor Lucan finishes his assigned speech with, "Happy Hunger Games, District Nine!" addressing the entire District, the more rural townships watching him via their own television screens in their own squares.

"Now, may I please welcome, back for yet another year, serving our wondrous District, your escort yala- no, ya-lay, uh, yoo-la-"

"Ylaya O'Meagher. Ya-lie-a o-mare."

"Thank you, Y-Ylaya. Ylaya O'Meagher, ladies and gentlemen!"

With that, Lucan struts off the stage to no applause. Doesn't faze him though. In his place comes our escort, Ylaya O'Meagher, that has been working with Nine's tributes for three years, yet every time old Lucan gets her name wrong.

She has extremely colourful hair, which I want to compliment her on because it looks amazing on her. Like the sky this morning it has streaks of blue, pink and orange which flows down over he shoulders, ending at her breastplate.

She wears typical Capitol dress, a frilly gold blouse partnered with baggy white pants that fade to grey, topped off with grey boots that rise to her mid-calf, pants hastily tucked in.

Ylaya glides to the microphone and introduces herself, spouting some nonsense about how wonderful it is to be back, which is said with such an utterly disappointed tone that nobody believes it.

"Now, it is time to reap one lucky girl and one lucky boy to participate in this year's Quarter Quell."

Ylaya repeats the same thing we heard the President say last night before spluttering more nonsense about how she adores President Saint-Blaise.

"Okay, well, ladies first! As always."

Ylaya wanders over to the bowl on her left, filled with a good ten or so names. My nerves spike again and I think of my family and Rye's family, anything to make me happy again and forget about this predicament.

I watch halfheartedly as Ylaya O'Meagher returns to the mic and opens the little red card in her hand, specially tinted red for the Quell.

A subtle reminder of the blood the Capitol is going to spill.

"Our female tribute is..."

Not me. Please. Not me.

Please.

"Avena Weitz!"

My heart sinks. The blood that flows through my body becomes stone and I stare blankly, tears welling up in my eyes. They don't come out as Ylaya calls out... something, something I don't pay attention to.

A kind boy next to me places his hand on my back and pushes me forward a little. A Peacekeeper comes and unties the rope from a stand on my left and opens up a lane for me to walk.

All I can think about as I begin to take steps forward and toward the stage is how barely anyone from Nine has come home from the games in all its years and how the odds most definitely aren't in my favour.

A tall, dark man helps me up the stairs, mind still in the middle of nowhere, blood still running cold. His hands guide up, one step at a time, and I must be taking forever because I hear Ylaya begin to talk again.

I cross her path, the escort, as I'm still guided by the man toward my standing area on the left side of the microphone. Ylaya struts back, another red card in her hand, and my mind begins to function.

Rye.

Oh my- how many names are in that bowl? It takes all my strength at that moment to twist to the right and look at the- eight, ten, twelve- fourteen names in the bowl.

He's in danger, oh Lord.

Beautiful, handsome, selfless Rye.

Oh God.

"Now, for our boy tribute."

Please.

Not him.

He doesn't deserve it.

I search the small crowd in the seventeens for Rye, straining my eyes to look far enough, behind the crowds of parents and children. Children who are safe.

I see him, sobbing, wiping his hand with his arm, eyes red.

Oh no.

He's going to volunteer.

Lord please, no-

"Rye Co-Coccia?"

I break down, I can't handle it.

Sweet Rye, sentenced to die with me.

I cry and I don't care who sees me cry. Not today.

I sink to my knees.

I sit, sprawled across the stage for a while, microphone blasting my ears as I weep, surrounded by people I don't know. People who'll judge me.

I couldn't care less how much of a twit I'm going to look like on the reaping recaps because I'm going to die.

I know it.

Arms wrap around me and sobs fill my ears over the microphone static and the screeching sounds of a Capitol accent.

"I'm so sorry Avena."

Rye.

"It'll be okay, I promise."

I can't listen to any other words in the world at this moment.

I can only focus on the boy whom I love.

* * *

 **Oh boy. What a** **roller-coaster** **. Seriously. This was** **nerve-wracking** **to write, I guess. I hope this counts as decent romance, or at least suffices. We've met two tributes here, Avena Weitz and Rye Coccia- whose chapter will be coming later -District 9 representatives.**

 **There was bit of a longer delay on this chapter, two days I think, and that may become more regular seeing I'll be juggling a few things in the next couple weeks. I'll inform you now and update you later that I may not get any chapters out in December, considering I'll be in Greece/Italy with friends for most of the month. Saying this because I don't think this story is going to be over quickly!**

 **On another note, we've got all our tributes and all the information we need and are OFFICIALLY underway! Thanks again to my reviewers, feel free to critique my romance writing in your reviews.**

 **May I mention to all submitters that I would appreciate it greatly if you could review and keep in touch with this story and not just your characters! This isn't directed toward all of you, just some. I prize reader interaction heavily and there'll be a lot of that to come when we near the games! It'll help if you stick around and are engaged in the community, believe me:**

 **I've got things planned.**

 **Hope I didn't sound too ominous there, anyways I'm going to watch the World Cup final now, so thank you all for reading!**


	7. A New Start: Phoebe

**Warning of detailed violence in this chapter- Phoebe and Falcon are not the nicest. Also, a little more swearing than usual. Keep in mind, I do swear in my writing for realism, considering it's commonplace for most teenagers, let alone ones with their lives on the line.**

* * *

Phoebe Farley, 17, District 7:

God, I haven't seen sunlight in forever.

In this early morning it fades through the trees and into our cell, lighting up any ground that lay in front of it.

We were transferred to this particular room last night and already it's a difference to the everlasting night Falcon and I received on the other side of the prison.

Jailed for an indefinite amount of time, I'm unsure if this is an indicator of our upcoming release or just a perk of good behaviour- not that anyone would disobey prison rules, even such a person as myself who enjoys testing the boundaries of others just to trigger an overt reaction.

Falcon and I woke early to dress, complying mechanically with the prison schedule of wake, eat, dress and work.

However today there is no work, because today is reaping day.

Peacekeepers await us outside our door as Falcon and I dress in reaping clothes provided for us; flashy white and black materials plastered onto a shirt and pants. We had a hollow breakfast of oatmeal and half a cup of water, with the oatmeal portions incredibly small.

Now, we prepare to leave. Out of the front gates of the jail and into the reaping line that will snake its way to the end of the road and to a square where two kids will be ultimately sent to death.

Well, since Seven hasn't had a victor for a few decades it must feel that way.

I slip my regulatory prison shoes on and look at Falcon for confirmation to open the cell door. He stares back at me so I tug hard on the battered piece of metal.

Handcuffs are slipped onto our wrists and tightened, armed Peacekeepers watching like hawks in case of any retaliation. Here, its death.

On the spot.

You fuck up you die.

We're directed through the prison toward the glorious main entrance and meet with other prisoners as we form a line of our own, one that leads out of the double doors that guard the jail and onto the evergreen pathway, adorned by small spruce trees, that leads out to the street.

Now full sunlight floods onto my face, momentarily blinding me as it shifts every which way through the trees the line the front of the District penitentiary.

I shake my shackles a little as I walk alongside Falcon, guards in front of and behind us. We're exactly on time to join the line that snakes through the outlying towns towards the largest one that has a makeshift square, just for the reapings.

No Justice Building out here in the sticks, considering the only people out here are lumberjacks, rural families, Peacekeepers and inmates, imprisoned so far from anything of importance there's no reason for them to escape, let alone anything for them to survive off of.

While we were on the run, Falcon and I had to eat bark as we tried to book it away from our old township as fast as we could. We knew the Peacekeepers were on our tail; Ivy would've ratted out the direction we went.

With their hovercraft and with their tracker dogs we only made it as far as the main logging settlement for the area, deep in the forest. Wood cabins adorned around us, we hurried into the basement of one while the 'jacks were out on the job.

Despite our efforts, the jacked-up Peacekeeper dogs sniffed us out and we were arrested. The trial went exactly like every other in the Districts; short, biased and decided by a Capitol official.

I didn't speak a word in court, since I find it stupid murdering a single man is punishable in this country, considering the Capitol's little tradition.

We were shipped straight to the old gaol and spent a few weeks there before being moved to the newer one across the District when the few prisoners in the gaol, excluding us, staged a riot.

It was a massacre.

We settled in quickly and found jail life consists of strict regimes, punishment, boredom and starvation. All District facilities aren't funded properly so Falcon and I are used to being hungry and treated like shit.

Falcon started off calm but after a while I saw a change in him that only I can see. He was internally fuming, spending his time chopping wood in the recreation yard in his free time. I hung back initially, but since sexism isn't a major problem in jail, I joined in without issue.

It's good training for a day like today. We sharpen our own axes, gather our own wood from the miles of forest coverage the jail extends into and can take carpentry courses for life after prison.

That's never in my mind, however. While I thought of possible escape when Falcon told me of the axes available, I soon discovered armed Peacekeepers patrol the chop stations, as they're known.

Soon, my mind drifted to the Hunger Games and possible volunteering, only to realise the Capitol would never let a prisoner volunteer, let alone two if Falcon were to follow, which he always would.

However, this year is different. This year we have a greater chance. To escape abuse, to escape hunger, to maybe even escape our entire predicament.

Last night was the President's announcement, required viewing for all inhabitants of Panem. The Quell was some statement about "reminding the Districts that Hunger Games season would never escape them" or whatever, but I didn't dwell on that.

What caught my attention was the announcement that followed:

That only May-born tributes were to be reaped.

Falcon and I are fraternal twins, born May twenty-first.

Now's our time.

I doubt in this shit-hole of a place with its small population, dirt tracks and half-collapsed shacks, that any other child would be born in May.

I'm yet to be proven wrong, as we set off, along the "road" toward the village that houses the square.

The sun that splits its shine between the trees that surround us begins to be covered by large, white clouds as the gravel dissipates into mushy, brown dirt. The square in our hometown was just dirt, a few televisions and a makeshift stage propped up. I doubt wherever we are today will be much better.

Falcon and I were always dragged along to the reaping by Ivy, our mother. She insisted we all attend as a family, when Dad was home, of course. Being a lumberjack he would be away often and would be inactive when he was home.

I remember Dad as a funny, jokester type man. When Falcon and I were ten, he fell down the stairs and died of brain damage. We were too young to know, but I read the records when I was fourteen, a discovery that didn't faze me, considering I fascinate myself with interesting things like human anatomy.

Falcon and I heard a noise when he fell and we cautiously walked out and found him, face-down, bleeding on the concrete floor. Ivy came racing down from upstairs and froze when she saw us, staring at him.

I know what she suspected, but she was wrong. We played no part in his death.

We didn't know what to do. We were ten.

Falcon and I stood there, unable to move as Ivy began to cry and made such a commotion the Peacekeepers arrived.

From then on, she had fears about us. Falcon and I were the only children in that household that weren't adopted and she distrusted us. We came to not like her when her love stopped. She loved Ollie and Addy more.

Oliver Farley was Ivy's favourite, the darling of the house. He was a gentle giant with fiery orange hair and light glasses that he was practically blind without. Ollie was adopted shortly before Ivy fell pregnant with Falcon and I, when our parents concluded that they were an infertile couple, when they were not.

Adabel Farley was adopted with Ollie and was the secret bitch of our dysfunctional family, who was too sociable for my liking. She never took kindly to me either and I still despise her to this day.

Peacekeepers begin to march alongside us, overtaking our position at the front and slowing the pack. Maybe we're running too early.

No doubt the reason so many Peacekeepers are monitoring this line specifically is for the prisoners. The townsfolk throughout Seven are harmless and Seven is known to be one of the least rebellious Districts. Trouble is, it has enough space to house two prisons, which in turn requires a large Peacekeeper presence.

We're pushed further back into the crowd by the slow-ass Peacekeepers and townsfolk resort to moving around to the sides of the line and proceeding ahead, past the front of the pack. A sea of black spews forward ahead of us, eager to put space between themselves and the dangerous individuals behind them. They've obviously been instructed to wear dark colours, considering all prisoners have been dressed in bright white shirts and black trousers which is a nice change from dirty orange jumpsuits.

As we continue further ahead, my legs begin to ache. The recreation yard in jail isn't very spacious and I haven't gotten decent exercise in an age. The heat becomes a problem, hot air radiating through the trees that begin to dwindle in population as we presumably near some sort of settlement.

I move my head and my neck cracks, hurting slightly. The trees on my left have been affected by rot, a disease that threatens Seven's livelihood. It's been common before, but some say an epidemic is on the rise.

Memories hit me like a rock. Ivy's business, tree care. After Dad's death, when we were thirteen, her trees died of a rot and yet again she became paranoid and secretly blamed us.

It put her out of a job which only decreased her relation with us. I know Ivy blamed us, maybe hating us, but she could never confront us.

She was too weak of a woman.

It was Ollie who confronted us. The quiet, gentle, loving Ollie who never spoke his mind about us. He morphed that day, into a different person, controlled by our mother.

Forcefully serving her.

I want to clench my fists at the thought of him, at the though of _her_ , but I don't. I've come to show little emotion at any time anymore. Instead, I spend my time playing with other peoples' emotions.

Oliver came to us, late afternoon, shortly after Falcon and I had our tattoos done when we turned sixteen. Ivy was at work, of course. She wouldn't face her fears. Adabel was nowhere to be seen either.

Oliver started calmly, addressing Ivy's paranoia and all the things that had gone wrong under that roof. He told us she began "worrying" about us because we were so quiet, which enraged both myself and my brother, simply from her own hypocrisy; Ivy never spoke to us.

When we were in her vicinity she ignored us, her children- she acted as if we were dead.

Oliver tread carefully from then on, possibly seeing the unbridled anger in Falcon's eyes. He told us what we already knew; that Ivy distrusted us and blatantly ignored us as a result. He informed us of more theories she had; that we killed Dad, that we poisoned her plants.

All untrue.

For once in my life, I began to shout, completely out of character due to my own rage at my neglect. Falcon began growling and pushing Oliver back. Oliver retaliated, defending himself with an outward arm.

No use.

We had nothing to work with other than our fists and boot-laden feet. I targeted the groin and stomach and Falcon the face and neck. It was a slow death until Falcon broke the skull.

We banded together, two against one, acting purely upon our own pique. We punched and kicked him- beat him to a pulp. He fell over and we continued. Oliver was unrecognisable, face stomped in by Falcon, glass strewn across his face, spectacles mangled.

From then on and more than ever, we relied on each other, Falcon and I, and I truly realised nobody in this world matters more. The brother whom I came into the world with is the only person who will not betray me.

We set off immediately, grabbing our coats and jumping the white picket fences that separated one stone-built home from another. We broke into a shed in a backyard and took an axe but we dropped it purely because it slowed us down.

We ran into the night, considering climbing into a tree to sleep, but we soon realised that wasn't an option when shouts and barking from behind us became clear.

Everyone knows the Peacekeepers jack up the attack dogs and mistreat them, just one look at them and you can recognise they're feral, searching for food at any cost. That's how we were found, in that basement in the lumberjack camp, huddled in with cobwebs and shelves of cheap alcohol; by starving rottweilers.

No dogs are needed today, I note as we stroll into town, a village that's gated by ten foot high stone walls, lined with sharpened metal spikes. Something feels ominous but I don't let it get to me.

The dirt track morphs back into light gravel and we find ourselves surrounded by wooden structures; homes, small offices and log holders that extend off of the grass to the side and hold at least thirty logs that look to be somewhere from twelve to fifteen feet long.

To my right is a crane, abandoned, showing the townsfolk have already scattered away to their plaza, however far away it may be. Surely it can't be long now, I can hardly stand this company around me.

I turn slightly, enough to draw Falcon into my view. Like I expected, his dark eyes searching for something- threats, weapons, escape routes -anything that could be of use to us.

Even if we were to break away we'd be shot dead, no doubt. I know Falcon isn't going to take that risk, but he's come to look for such things in survival instinct, not trusting others like myself, even if he's more open as a person.

The dark-dressed citizens have halted their approach up ahead, signifying to me we draw near to the square. I prepare myself for more rough treatment, probably some extra line for prisoners, manned exclusively by a band of Peacekeepers, batons in hand.

Yet, it doesn't happen. We follow a dirty stone path past more homes and into the open area surrounded by few shops and closed off by piles and piles of logs behind the small stage.

The line dissolves and Falcon and I are herded into the seventeens line, just like old times. There's no prison line and no harsh treatment.

I'm pleasantly surprised.

Of course, I don't let that show as I turn to face the Peacekeeper at the desk guarding entry into the roped areas.

I know the routine. It's a new experience to place out my finger for blood testing when I'm handcuffed, but everything else is no different to usual. Blood is taken, my details appear for the Peacekeeper to inspect and I shuffle forward in the dirt.

A Peacekeeper comes to unlock my shackles with a smile, probably because of my age. Some used to say I look younger than I am, with my elbow-length black hair and full pink lips, which some consider girlish.

I'll be sure to use that to my advantage if I'm reaped today.

I turn and wait for Falcon to cross through and get his own cuffs removed before we walk as near to the stage as possible. It doesn't concern me that we're the only ones in this area, with the remaining few seventeens cornered into a slim corridor behind more red rope.

Falcon and I say nothing, because we both know nothing needs to be said. Commotion flutters around the square, mainly at us prisoners, but I take little interest in the conversations.

A Peacekeeper decides to step up to the stage and walk across to the microphone, catching the attention of most. His slicked black hair bounces as he grabs the microphone stand and call us to attention.

Quickly after all eyes turn to the Peacekeeper our ears are pounded by loud feedback from a microphone. It takes a good look around to see that the televisions around the square have been turned on and are blasting audio from Mayor Nicholas' microphone which seems to be playing up somewhere across the District.

"Welcome, la- and gentle- the reaping for the- Quarter Quell!"

Useless man.

He's dressed in a bright green suit that reflects a glare back onto the camera and keeps playing around with a black fedora that holds a green feather on its side. He seems nervous, which for an athletic thirty-or-so year-old man is off-putting.

How exactly did he come to run the District?

His tech team have finally sorted out the mic when he goes to speak again after a few seconds of complete silence.

"I'm sure you're all very excited to be here today, and may I welcome you all, wherever you may be in our District.

"Now, I'm sure you will all recognise the face I introduce next," Nicholas continues with an unnerving chuckle. "Please, District Seven, welcome your escort Riechedly La Paz!"

A middle-aged man with otherwise brown hair styled upwards in a primarily bright yellow faux hawk storms out from his chair yelling all sorts of greetings. He wears a yellow coat with a grey vest and corduroy pants with finely polished brown loafers tip-tapping across the stage. He has caterpillars for eyebrows and the wind shifts as it makes space for his scruffy brown goatee that's plastered across his chin.

Nevertheless, this doesn't stop his smile bringing out every wrinkle in his face.

He shows his age as he struts across to the mic, clapping Mayor Nicholas on the back on the way. Despite his enthusiasm and his presence in presumably Seven's largest town, he gets no reward of applause or cheers.

"Hello, hello, hello District Seven!"

Riechedly beams with excitement as none is returned to him from the crowd.

"How are you all?"

Silence.

To lighten the mood, Riechedly does a little tap dance, something the girls were taught to do in school. I wonder how he learned that.

"I sure know I'm ready! First of all, however, we must all turn to our left and reflect on how we got to this moment."

With that, the Treaty of Treason is read by a robotic voice that erupts from the television before being quietened.

This has definitely changed since Falcon and I have been locked up, by way that Mayor Nicholas should be introducing the Treaty and its accompanying video. It's not a thought that bothers me- I don't care for anyone but Falcon -but it's something to dwell on to drown out the stories of war.

"Well-dy well shmell pell! Wasn't that a nice recap everybody?" Riechedly laughs aloud.

I've lost all faith in humanity.

Take me away.

"Yes, I thought so too," Riechedly replies into thin air. "Now, to draw our tributes for this year! Ooh, what a momentous occasion!"

The escort takes a step left before stepping right again to remind everyone that it's ladies first.

I prepare myself internally as Riechedly reaches his long, plump hand into the round bowl that surely has my name in it. Despite what I would think to be logic, tesserae can be taken in prison. Therefore, I should have at least five slips in that bowl.

Riechedly brings his hand out of the dome and smiles sickly.

Some things never change.

He steps back over to the microphone and leans forward, smiling somewhat genuinely.

"Our lady tribute is...

"Phoebe Farley!"

Huh.

Clad in his white armour, a Peacekeeper comes to let me out of my section. He detaches a clip and lets me out, trailing me until I reach the stairs to the stage.

It's not hard to show little emotion at being reaped. I see it as an opportunity to escape reality. Odds are Falcon will be joining me, there aren't many May-borns as far as I can see, both here and on TV.

I end up treading extremely lightly on my ascent upward to the stage, watching the television across from me. I study it as Riechedly trots over to a TV himself and has the gall to gloat at me, mouth open wide. I completely ignore the escort and his judgmental nature, instead focusing my attention on the shit-stack stage erected purely for this event creaking under my weight, which can't be a good sign considering I'm malnourished as it is.

I'm sure cameras across the District are zooming in on my face right this very moment, the operators hoping, praying for some sign of life to come from it. I've become extremely skilled at concealing any reactions I may have, especially when I'm under pressure.

Not that I feel it.

The wind calmly blows through my hair as I stand, expecting nothing. Rather, it's others who expect something from me.

I stare straight ahead and eventually the escort decides to continue with his job.

"Right, well, welcome Phoebe, all the way from Holloway Logging Camp!"

I don't recognise the name, but it's still news to me.

Thank you, Riechedly.

"Shall we get started on the boys?" Riechedly asks aloud, probably expecting no answer based off what he's received already.

"I think so," he murmurs, sidestepping away from the microphone and towards the boys bowl.

My curiosity piques as I think of Falcon and his chances of being reaped. It would be beneficial if we were together, even if we made it to the end game we would never betray each other.

I search the crowd in front of me and its disappointing numbers for Falcon, finding him in no time. He's staring at me, leaning on the rope in front of him. He must know he'll be reaped.

I feel like we're masters of telepathy at times.

I hear microphone feedback and watch the smaller televisions at the back of the square eagerly as Riechedly unfolds his little red card in his fatty hands.

"Ooh-hoo! Ladies and gentlemen, your male tribute is Falcon Farley!"

What a coincidence.

I wouldn't be surprised if the Capitol- or Seven's officials -rigged the reaping to kill off its own criminals.

But who's the real criminal?

I turn my head for the first time and hear my neck crack as I gaze at Falcon, his mouth positioned upward in a smirk. Cool, calm and collected, as usual.

Falcon doesn't break a sweat lightly jumping up the stage steps and gliding over to my position, his slicked-down black hair stationary as he comes to a stop. We do contrast each other a great deal, even if we are siblings. I spy his smirk has disappeared as we stand side by side, two rural tributes, the escort unable to congratulate us on our prestige.

I highly doubt any means of transportation rests out here. Knowing the Capitol and its traditions, we will most likely be flown by hovercraft to some sin city that has a train line, direct to the Capitol. This, of course, pales in comparison to the more obvious and practical decision to just fly us to the Capitol in said hovercraft, but no.

Tradition stands in Panem.

A number of Peacekeepers converge on the stage, little compared to the amount that attended the reapings back in our hometown. One lays a hand on my shoulder, but I do nothing. Resisting will only cause trouble.

Falcon and I are led off the stage and taken through the crowd as the whimsical Riechedly finishes his speeches to crowds across the District.

A part of me says to run, but I know we can't.

This is a golden opportunity to escape our misfortune.

* * *

 **Our sibling pairing everybody! Phoebe and Falcon Farley of my beloved District 7. With this chapter done, we focus on post-reaping for the next few.**

 **I'm pretty bummed out cause I need to sleep, so I'll finish up quickly. What were your thoughts on both Phoebe and Falcon? Of course, Falcon will have his own chapter somewhere along the line, but I hope I got some detailed first impressions in!**

 **Thank you to everybody supporting the story! I try my best to get these out as quick as possible. I'm excited to keep going! Don't feel any pressure to stay overly committed to this story if you have commitments outside of FanFiction, I know real life is getting a few of you down. I probably sound like a hypocrite considering what I said last chapter about keeping updated with the story, but that's just a request that isn't always and can't always be fulfilled.**

 **Right, time to sleep. Thank you for reading!**


	8. All Me: Basil

**Hello all! I have a poll currently up on my profile regarding how lengthy my update schedule for this story should be. I feel that right now I may be updating too quickly for some readers to keep up, so I'm putting it to a poll.**

 **There are four options: uploading every two to three days, weekly, fortnightly or monthly. More detail on my profile, but I'd appreciate your input! The poll will be up until Wednesday the first of August and I will leave this chapter out for longer than usual, possibly up to a week.**

 **Thank you for reading this pretty long notice and I hope you enjoy Basil!**

* * *

Basil Lidelle, 17, District 1:

"News from the academy everybody!" Gleek Frisket, the escort for One, says with a giggle.

The skyline of our city behind her is hard to ignore, but so are her words. Buildings of many colours tower above the escort; dew yellow, gold, hazy pink, sunset purple. Its something out of an art exhibition, a rare occasion that really only my mother appreciates and thus drags me along to.

One of the categories is 'cityscaping', where an artist will paint the features of a city that are most prominent or beautiful. Surely a beautiful sunrise such as the one we're experiencing now paired with the marvels of architecture I spy would win first prize for any artist, no matter their skill.

"There's no unanimous winner! Oh goody, I hope you know what that means!"

I don't. I, like others gathered here today based on the lack of gasps around the main square of One, have never seen this happen before. No winner from the academy? What, did someone cheat? Was there a tie between competitors? Did the winner decide not to volunteer? I'm sure that's not allowed, if he won fair and square. I guess he'd be frowned upon either way.

Normally, potential tributes join the District academy to train with Victors and battle it out for the opportunity to volunteer and either bring back glory to their District or die in the games.

Near the reaping, the final tournament takes place, where all enrolled are required to show their know-how and combat against their rivals. The competitors are mainly judged on their skill with a wide variety of weapons but also on their knowledge of survival skills and physical condition, which is where I got most of my points from when I was in the academy.

The judges tally up an individual amount of points based on how well an individual does in each aspect of training and the person with the most points is awarded the right to volunteer for the games that year.

It's purely a Career District thing, for One, Two and the like, but sometimes other Districts hold training programs, as far as I know from what we see on TV.

I quit training for the games a while back, I wasn't very skilled. I like to think I'm pretty strong but weapons were my downfall. Father always said I should train hard and grasp the opportunities he never had, to become a Victor and live a life of luxury, but I'm not overly fussed on money, I prefer being able to live a happy life than a rich life, one filled with friends and fun.

"Yes, that's right everybody! None of the competitors were born in May!"

That's news to me.

"That means there is _technically_ no volunteer from the academy this year! Oh boy! Therefore," Gleek exclaims with a grin the size of Panem. "District One's male tribute will be decided by me! In the reaping of the remaining May-borns!"

Clapping her hands manically, Gleek scampers over to the bowl on her right. The girl, I forget her name, but she's already been chosen. Volunteered, actually. Academy winner. She stands away from Gleek, eyes darting around aimlessly, hands fidgeting with the white dress that laps at her thighs.

She's most definitely a Career, but she doesn't look like a mean person. She has dazzling cerulean eyes and flowing blonde hair, traits I wouldn't normally attribute to a killing machine. I think I've seen her around, but I couldn't know for sure- I'm pretty popular with a ton of ladies. Also, our general area is huge both in size and population, you can tell simply from the amount of people around without needing to see the numbers.

My family lives in a apartment on the outskirts of the residential area, the Grove, which is cosy for our family of five. Father's a goldsmith and Mother a hair stylist so neither are home a lot of the time, so I can have friends- and girls -over when I please.

I quickly tug at the sleeves of my white flannel shirt, again reinforcing to myself that it was a stupid idea to wear a long-sleeve shirt in this heat. Its not overly hot, but I can feel the sweat radiating around me, from both District person, Peacekeeper and Capitolite alike.

 _Speak of the devil-_ Gleek begins to reach her long, blueish hand into the male bowl which, thankfully, only has my name in it once. She carefully curates the picking of the slip, almost examining them, her sharp blue eyes lifting and swirling about as her hand dives to the bottom of the bowl, searching randomly for a slip.

The thought enters my mind as I watch Gleek draw out two slips that catch in her rounded purple nails, do the escorts have a strategy for choosing the card? A lucky manoeuvre, perhaps? Do they just dive to the bottom every time or do they graciously choose a slip from the top of the pile?

I know I would try and be upbeat as possible, maybe make reapings a little more fun. I'm not quite sure how I'd incorporate my enthusiasm into such a boring moment as the drawing of the slip, but it's something to ponder as I patiently await Gleek's return to the microphone.

"District One's male tribute for the seventh Quarter Quell is..."

I've got it! I'd mix and throw around all the slips and do my very best to amuse the audience in the flurry of activity I would create! It may not work on the adults, but I love making little kids laugh!

Gee, it must be hard to captivate an audience as an escort.

"Basil Lidelle!"

Everyone stops and stares at Gleek's words. Eyes converge on me from all sides of the square.

I'm frozen in place, mind racing with dubious thoughts. What are the chances? It can't be! I had one slip!

My legs dare not move. The sardines all packed in around me have miraculously found space to disperse out into, leaving me stranded, alone in my own pool of doubt and shock.

My mind zooms back and forth, going faster than it ever has before, processing the events of the day and all the possible outcomes of any move I could potentially make, all in its fear of death.

I hadn't realised I'd tuned out to the world around me up until now, my body deciding to allow the screech of a strong accent into my ears and through its canals, slowly transforming itself into signals that my brain can receive. If there's one subject I enjoy, it's science, especially biology. I love knowing everything about myself from what causes my heart to beat, to where- to where f-fear is h-housed in my b-brain.

"Basil, I suggest you hurry up deary."

The sound of marching- no, _stomping_ boots, floods my delicate ears and shaking my body to its core. _Peacekeepers!_

I presume my mind snaps out of its trance as the world becomes a blur and the sentient being inside myself gets trapped in my eyes. My feet take over, pulling my body out of its deadlock. The last thought I have before I seclude to nothing but sight is a warning to myself to avoid Peacekeepers at all costs.

They're deadly.

My mouth stays shut and I'm only aware of what I see in front of me as my anatomy clomps its way down to the stage. I'm pulled back into reality when a Peacekeeper blocks my path and I receive enough time to get over myself and take hold.

I look around, firstly in front of me, the Peacekeeper dragging out stairs on wheels for me to use to reach the stage where a beatific Gleek Frisket stands, beaming at me and whispering somewhat comforting words, for a Capitolite.

"Come on now, dear."

"Up we go, well done!"

"Aren't you just so wonderful?"

I remember who I am, Basil Lidelle, the seventeen-year-old boy who just succumbed to an extreme bout of shock at his r-reaping for the H-Hunger Games. My God.

My eyes scan around me and I realise I've been taken up to the stage and am quaking, trembling even, in front of thousands.

A small part of me secedes to protect my reputation of being calm and popular, but it can't. I'm too petrified.

I can only imagine the look of pure horror on my face as Gleek lays her hands on my shoulders and walks me over to the front of the stage, standing next to the girl tribute, who I will most certainly _need_ to be nice now, considering I'm going into a death game with her!

"Well, you're a scared one aren't you?" Gleek says into the microphone, yet I'm unsure whether she's addressing me or the audience. Her tone shifts from kind to shame-inducing quickly, as I resort to glancing down to avoid all shame I should receive.

The crowd is silent and I quietly reflect as Gleek does some more talking, mentioning "cameras" and "drama" and other topics I'm too dazed to acknowledge.

 _You had one slip._

The phrase, the _reality_ keeps repeating itself over in my head. How is it possible? Why would this fate befall upon me?

I have little training; I rely on my strength that carried me through the academy until I called it quits. I'm not overly intelligent; I rely on my charm that has made me such a hit with the girls that laden my life. The odds are not in my favour, so why?

"Thank you all for coming out here today and may the odds be ever in your favour. Panem forever."

I remain as still as a statue as Gleek dismisses One's residents. I hear wailing and mewling emitting from a side of the square and I turn to see, blazoned in front of the outer wall, my family. Father, Mother, my younger sisters Ginger and Saffron, the latter two causing the sounds that flood my ears and send me into a second bout of panic, huffing and panting as a force of Peacekeepers lead the girl and I into the Justice Building for the infamous goodbyes.

I only make eye contact with the girl when she looks my way and I stop malfunctioning internally for just a second to flash her a look and nod curtly, introducing myself as best I can considering our predicament. I'm sure I'll come to know her during the next few weeks, God forbid I'm not killed prematurely.

The thought sends my mind racing again and I consume myself in the architecture of the Justice Building to yet again distract myself. Intricate detail in the carvings as we round the many free-standing pillars and spiral staircases, all crafted from pristine white stone. Pictures hang in a gallery-like format in the open, circular room that lies behind the huge mahogany doors guarding the entire hall.

I come to find the portraits detail the past mayors of One along with the President they served under thanks to a glorious painting of our current leader President Saint-Blaise above Mayor Freedman, a young man who is known for still redeeming his childhood features. Striking blonde hair that flops over his forehead, a defined yet chubby face and a toothy grin that he's managed to cover up for this particular occasion.

Out of nowhere, a smiling Gleek emerges and stops the Peacekeeper escort in front of two rooms that lie adjacent to each other, just down the hall from another wide set of mahogany doors that mimic the ones at the front entrance.

"Right! Faberge, you're in here, my dear," Gleek addresses us as she points to her right.

Faberge, that's her name? Certainly odd, I think, heart rate calming from the calm demeanour of Gleek and even the Peacekeepers. The girl, Faberge, still fidgets but not as much.

I observe her flick her hair back as a Peacekeeper steps out of line to open the door for her. The height of courtesy.

I should've thought of that.

After all, I have to get on this girl's side. Surely she's a fitting compatriot to survive with, she doesn't seem hellbent on ending my life and she doesn't seem weak. I'll have to try my luck later.

Gleek points to her left. "Basil, darling, in here please."

No door is opened for me and I take my time opening it, annoying the Peacekeepers. I'm plonked forcefully onto a red velvet couch by the squad of them and I'm immediately taken aback by something so luxurious I've only heard of it, even with my parents' professions allowing us to live well-off.

The entire room around me is covered in velvet; the couch, the rug, the blanket by the fireplace and its velvet covered mantle, the velvet tapestry on the wall, God who is so obsessed with velvet enough to design this?

Thinking about how we prepare the velvet to be sent to Eight to be made into things calms me, straying my mind from the horrors that it knows await it. It must make its way to the Capitol, I infer, further distracting myself from the predicament I find myself in.

 _Of course it does, you idiot! You think Eight's littered with red velvet couches?_

I grasp my head in my hands.

I'm going to die!

Familiar sounds echo around the corridor as tears begin to well up in my eyes. Distressed cries, shouts of dissent-

My family.

I leap from the couch in time to see Ginger and Saffron round the corner and career through the frame into my arms, Peacekeeper stumbling behind them. I'm knocked back into the bouncy velvet of the couch as I close my eyes and nestle my head into my their warm arms, putting all my problems behind me for the blissful moment.

"Basil!" Saffron's voice is muffled by the flannel I wear, yet I hear the distress in her tone. Oh God, she's crying.

I lift my head from the warm crevice it lay in and stroke her dark red hair that I've always said resembled her namesake, the spice. Same for Ginger, her light orange hair mimicking the spice that Mother commonly uses in her cooking.

I bend down and face my little sisters, shielding my face from the dismay thrown my way by my parents. "Hey, hey shh, shh."

Saffron's face is a mix of tears, screwed up parts and the colour red, her hair matting over her eyebrows. Ginger looks relatively calm, but her tight hugging before tells me otherwise.

"I'll come back, okay? I promise."

"You better."

I rise until my eyes fall upon my mother, looking unimpressed, judgmentally scanning me up and down just as she did when I quit the academy. "You heard me."

Dad chimes in. "We have high expectations of you Basil. You've been given this chance to prove yourself and I know you will, won't you son?"

I'm torn. My parents have always relished the idea of their son bringing home glory, but they're _happy_ I've been reaped?

My hands slide off my knees as I fully stand, facing my parents. I have two ways to go about this. Agree or challenge them at their thoughts.

No. I won't challenge them.

All my life, my parents have set unrealistic goals for me. "Join the academy, Basil. Become a millionaire, have the life I never could."

"Bring glory to District One, Basil. Bring it home, son."

"You'll live a lavish life, you can buy happiness, Basil!"

They never considered my thoughts, wants or wellbeing. They've never considered the aspect of killing another child cause they've never had to. The only thing they desire is their son living up to their expectations and becoming rich. Any time I oppose them, I'm scolded, humiliated or worse.

Beaten.

They don't care.

No, I won't be fighting for them or the money. I'll be fighting for my sisters.

I'll be winning for my sisters.

"Of c-course, Father," I say after a lengthy thinking session. My hands float around the heads of my sisters and I'm welcomed into my father's arms. He's a burly man and I definitely take after him, though you wouldn't know it.

His dark brown hair is receding and his goatee fading to grey. His huge stomach protrudes into my chest as I enter his arms.

My sisters stumble over and I comfort them when I'm released from my father's grip. I don't know how long I have, so I make it quick.

"I'll be coming home, okay? I'll be okay, I promise. I'll win and we'll all be rich!"

When I'm forced to utter the word 'rich' a part of me cracks and my voice breaks. I fix the situation by clearing my throat which has amassed a gathering of phlegm since my breakdown on stage.

Both Ginger and Saffron nod, Saffron clearing her tear trails with a wipe of her hand. I look at my mother, her expression has moulded from dissatisfied to relaxed, hopefully based off of my words.

It kicks me in the gut when I realise there's no way out of this. I'm a double agent towards my family and I'm going to have to continue this winner attitude throughout my stay in the Capitol. I haven't even thought of how I'm going to survive or make allies and I'm already clouded by my damn parents and their stupid expectations!

I feel like lashing out, just then and there, but my family turns to leave and I'm left with my mother's parting words:

"Come home a victor or don't come home at all."

No "love you", no "good luck", no nothing.

I hate them.

I hug my sisters again and kiss them both on their head, my eyes brimming with tears from a mixture of things.

I pick up where my parents left off with an "I love you" to both of them as they squeal their phrases of support as a lone Peacekeeper leads them away.

I sigh, laying on the floor, attempting to breathe through my nose and finding it blocked, probably from my distress.

"God, get yourself together, Basil."

A voice.

I look to my right.

"Fa- Faberge, right?"

"Yeah. Basil, right?"

"Y-Yeah."

"Pretty unfortunate to get reaping in a one-off year, huh?"

I'm unsure how to respond, but I know I need to stand up or at least sit up, so I rise and take a seat on my couch. "I guess."

"Yeah, well how about being default academy winner 'cause of your birthday?"

"Mine's worse."

Faberge laughs. "I guess that's true."

There's a momentous silence as I study Faberge properly for the first time. She has light blonde hair that stretches down to her shoulder blades and those dazzling blue eyes that flutter downward as soon as I study them. Like many from One, she's a beauty.

Her white dress flows as she leans against the velvet-covered mahogany draws to my right, obviously not feeling comfortable enough to join me sitting down. I've had many girlfriends in the past, I'm known for that, but this one seems outta my league.

"I haven't seen you around before," Faberge continues.

"Oh, well," I stutter, feeling nervous but confident seeing as she began the conversation again and not myself, which is a proper sign that she wants to talk. "I live on the edge of the Grove, so you probably wouldn't know me."

"Not to say I haven't _heard_ of you."

What?

"Huh?"

"Basil Lidelle, your father's a goldsmith. I hear you've had a ton of girlfriends, quite the womaniser."

I feel the shock register on my face. "I-I-I... I'm not a bad person!"

Faberge stays quiet for a moment, reading me. I hate being judged for my popularity and she must know I'm especially vulnerable at this moment.

"Don't let it get to you," Faberge spurts out of nowhere.

I'm taken aback. "Don't let what get to me?"

"Your situation, what people think of you, everything," Faberge replies as she walks out the door. "Be strong. I'll see you on the train."

 _Be strong_.

Those words in particular stick with me as I watch Faberge strut into her own room, gently closing the door behind her.

 _Be strong._

 _Don't let it get to you_.

I think back to before this moment, before the reaping when I was happy, a word that seems so ridiculously distant from me at the moment. When I could spend time with my sisters, oh my joyous siblings who brighten my day.

I was known to wear a smile and be happy, candid and optimistic, just some of the factors that attracted girls to me but I just feel disheartened now.

 _You need to fight Basil, for them._

And I will.

 _You need allies. You have to be yourself._

 _Be strong_.

I have to be. I will be.

Faberge is right. I can't let the misery and the oppression the Capitol forces onto us get to me. I have to be strong, for those that matter in my life. For the prospect of a joyful life, not filled with money, power or the demands of my parents.

I'm going to get through this.

* * *

 **That's Basil Lidelle, everybody, the first post-reaping chapter. I feel pretty sick so I hope this chapter was up to par, please leave your critiques in a review. We met the District 1 female here as well, Faberge Dynama. She will get a chapter of her own later on.** **Soon enough we'll be at the train rides! I'm pretty dang excited!**

 **Now to address something I feel I need to and that is you guys. How are you all keeping up with this story? Should I stop updating so fast or keep going at this pace of updates every week at most? I strongly encourage you to vote in the poll I mentioned earlier, but also to leave a note about anything I could do better regarding reader interaction in this story in a review, along with the aforementioned critiques that could be applicable.**

 **I plan to leave this chapter out longer than usual so I can get as many replies as possible so I can possibly amend my writing and updating schedule if needed, probably gonna be upwards of a week until next chapter.**

 **Other than that, thank you all for your support and thank you for reading!**


	9. Motherly: Nadine

**More swearing than usual in this chapter- some big swear bears coming out of Eight. Also, some graphic injury scenes around the middle to end.**

* * *

Nadine Pavlova, 18, District 8:

"Get the fuck off of me you pig pieces of shit!"

Great.

Here I am, hand-picked to die in a murderous amusement curated by and for the people who rule over me, my family and my people and they couldn't even give me a nice District partner.

 _I'm sure there's an abundance of children born in May, Nadine_.

Yeah right, Dad.

I'm stood next to the most stuck-up, spoiled kid in the District who's so... _large_ his rolls are pushing me out of my assigned quarters on the stage. The Peacekeepers practically wrestled him onto the stage, stuck up son of a bitch spitting at my feet when he was finally constrained to his place next to me.

No, it hasn't been a fun day for old Nadine.

I knew I was at risk when the card was read last night, but Lord above does nobody want to be born in May?

"I was gonna volunteer anyway, you pricks!"

Hansel Gretchen, son of Hansel Gretchen Sr. and the notorious bully of District Eight.

Dressed in a creased grey button-up suit missing a single button thanks to his size, my new District partner, Lord help me, grabs the microphone with his sweaty, meaty hand.

"Thanks for calling my name! Saved me some hassle!"

 _You'll be spending the next three weeks with that, Nadine._

 _One week at least_.

God, I've gone from being on the brink of tears to angry and pessimistic just because of this boy.

Our wonderfully depressed escort Wolffdene Harrell emerges from behind his shield of Peacekeepers and prises Hansel away from the microphone, which in turn reacts with an ear-splitting feedback screech.

Just another day in pleasant District Eight.

Come visit sometime!

Yes, here society is unjust. More unjust than any other in the country, to my knowledge. The factory owners, such as Hansel here's father, abuse their workers and directly disobey the law, paying them less than they should be getting. Those factory owners then become rich thanks to the surplus amount of money they have lying around after taking advantage of their staff.

My father is one of those people.

He is a man who manipulates and mistreats.

But who am I to stand up to him?

All my life he has taught me how to survive, that people will take advantage of me as he does his workers. Therefore, I must trust nobody but my family, those closest to me. Who am I to disobey him? I don't want to end up another slave in his regime.

He's loving towards my family either way, so what is it to me how he manages his business? It puts food on the table and he has never hurt any one of us. Not mother, not Sasha, not Luka, not William and not Nikita.

In my eyes, he is a role model.

My mother doesn't interfere with my father's work. She's a seamstress, weaving and crafting as her mother taught her. She's as loving as Father and I know she'll have full confidence in my ability.

But do I?

I've tended to my mother's sewing, learning from her patiently over the years. But I don't have skills with weapons!

What about my personality? I love my family, but anyone else can get fucked as far as I care!

How did I even get into this position? What are the God damn odds? I never even took tesserae, we just scrape by without it!

I need to calm down. I can't let my anger get the best of me, 'cause I'll end up like old Hansel getting manhandled into the Justice Building. If I'm going to win this, I'll need to be in peak physical condition _and_ in control of my emotions.

I also need to learn a weapon.

 _That's it Nadine, get your priorities straight. The longer you think this out, the better off you'll be_.

Right. My District partner will be of zero use to me, but do I want an alliance?

Hm, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Wolffdene begins in his mopey voice through the now calm microphone, "thank you for attending this-"

"Fuck you!"

God, does he ever stop?

"-this _eventful_ reaping. I've been Wolffdene Harrell, Panem forever."

Wolffdene turns to me and nods his head toward the Justice Building. He's getting old, I mean, he's been escort for Eight since before I was born and I'm eighteen now. The skin on his face has started to sag and any bit of emotion that ever existed in his voice has evaporated, leaving Wolffdene with a generic tone like no other.

His slicked grey hair brings out his blue, blue eyes, but that's all I can compliment him on. People say the same thing about me, with my light blonde hair supposedly bringing out my 'blue steel' coloured eyes, as the eccentric barber of town Fernando Masteer once called them.

Now, my hair reaches just past my shoulders having been cut before this morning. My mother insisted on one reaping where I wear my hair down, well, that was bad luck, wasn't it?

I'll be sure to revert back to my usual bun in time for anything Capitol. Wouldn't want bad luck in the Hunger Games, would I?

I'm led into the Justice Building by Wolffdene, who I assume must think I'm that little of a threat he can lead me on his own.

 _Oh well, the Peacekeepers are sure to be busy with Hansel judging off of the yelling down the hall. They don't need any more trouble_.

Ha, I can't believe I just thought that.

I walk side by side with Wolffdene through the battered old building that's home to Mayor Bramwell and his wife. Wolffdene seems surprised as he shields himself from the light that shines through the hole in the roof. That hole's the result of a bomb and has existed since the Second Rebellion.

"Don't you ever get used to that?" I ask, somewhat confused at his reaction.

"Sorry?" Wolffdene snorts in response.

"The light. You were surprised. Y'know that hole's been there for a hundred years, right?"

With a nasally huff, Wolffdene shrugs. "My memory's getting away from me, dear."

We trudge together, past the hall that's chock-full of mayor portraits, dating back to even before the Dark Days. Mayor Bramwell smiles at us from above the doorway at the end of the corridor, his thin, rectangular glasses low on his nose and his skin sagging in his age, just like Wolffdene's.

It seems his curly-ish brown hair has been controlled for this one occasion as his eyes bear down on us. I can't help but notice his beige Christmas sweater, little reindeers imprinted by his neck.

I smile and look down to hide it.

Mayor Bramwell is one of the few people I like in this world.

His wonderful sense of humour evaded him today, thanks to outbursts from the union members. I could never insult that man- he's too fragile.

He ended up leaving early in his sadness, Wolffdene taking over for him. Since both of them have been serving Eight for many years, they've developed a mutual acquaintanceship between themselves. I'm sure Wolffdene will disappear soon enough to go comfort the old mayor.

Red velvet begins to line the walls as Wolffdene and I catch up to Hansel, who sneers at me as he's pushed into a room, the door then being slammed shut and locked from the outside.

I can hear a Peacekeeper sigh.

Wolffdene goes to open a door on my left and I sigh myself.

The goodbyes.

"In here, my dear."

"Thank you," I mutter as Wolffdene opens the door for me and I enter into a room covered entirely in red velvet.

"What the-"

The door closes gently behind me.

Since when has this been happening? This velvet takes days, weeks even, to fully make, pack and transport without the aid of machines and they make a one-purpose room out of it?

Two of my brothers slave away, choking on factory fumes making this stuff for minimum wage and _this_ is what happens to their product?

Fuck, I hate the Capitol.

I plop myself down on the admittedly comfortable couch, brimming with anger but also uncertainty.

 _Where to from here?_

God, I don't know. It doesn't help I have a District partner who will most definitely piss me off and distract me from my goals.

Why did this have to happen to me?

The door opens with a click.

"You have two minutes."

My family rush in, my littlest brother William first followed by sixteen-year-old Sasha and thirteen-year-old Luka. My parents round out the group expedition, seven-year-old Nikita holding my crying mother's hand.

I drop to my knees from the sofa and let my brothers fall into my arms and I finally set my emotions free after suppressing them for so long during and after the reaping. We cry together as Father looks on and Mother weeps with Nikita in her arms.

"Nadine."

My father's booming voice rebounds off the red velvet walls.

I look up, taking my head out of its previously buried position on Sasha's shoulder. Through my dry throat I manage to choke out an answer to his tall figure.

"Yes?"

"Win for us. Just- come home, will you?"

"Of course," I choke, raising my hand to my mouth and crying still, tears streaming down my face.

As a family we console each other for sometime until Mother bends down to my level, her eyes red and sore. She removes her pendant from her neck, the pendant that has been in her family for generations. It's nothing more than a worn silver locket, but it means so much to her.

"Your token," she whispers. "Take it."

I clasp the necklace in my hand, tears still rolling down my cheeks. I have to win.

For my family.

I place the pendant around my neck as Mother takes my head and kisses it, the door opening behind her as she does so. A Peacekeeper marches in.

"Time's up."

My mother stands, her hand running down my face. I remain there, crying, watching as she's herded out the door with a final "I love you."

Father is next, hugging me along with my three brothers. He takes Nikita, who's been awfully quiet, in his hand and heads for the door, his greying brown mustache that sits covering his mouth being the last thing of his I could ever lays my eyes on.

My three brothers cling to me weeping, showing no intent of leaving. A familiar sigh fills the room- it could be the same Peacekeeper, I don't know -as the Peacekeeper forcefully removes little William and carries him to others waiting outside, Will screaming and kicking all the way.

I scream for him, blocking out every other sound as two more Peacekeepers forward in, both clad in blinding white. Sasha holds my leg so tight he drags me with him, pencil skirt and blouse rubbing against the carpet, shocking me statically as the Peacekeeper picks him up and throws him out the door and against the wall.

I turn from sorrowful to enraged at the snap of a finger and begin to curse and hit the Peacekeeper, their armour blocking any amount of pain I could ever inflict with my bare hands. It- yes, _it_ is the correct term, _it_ stares at me, face shielded with that signature mask.

The anonymity only enrages me more as Luka attempts to dart out the room, away from the tight, painful vise of the Peacekeepers. He can't make it far without the lackey team of Peacekeepers lifting him and slamming him against the ground.

I use all my might to throw the Peacekeeper into the wall, yet I can only push the fat prick out of a standing position. It laughs and I become furious. Angrier than I've ever been in my life.

Shrieking like a banshee, I reach for the lamp that lay on a small table to my right, by the door. The shade is a material I don't have experience with, but I can tell the body of the lamp itself is porcelain.

Perfect.

I yank the lamp from its position on the table, gripping it white-knuckled in my right hand as I rush the Peacekeeper, slamming it into the door. I use my free hand to tug upwards at the hem of its helmet, pulling it up and up and up until he is revealed.

A young man, messy brown hair spiked into the air, his face unshaven. The mask now off, the air grows muggy as the shock registers on his face. The only thing he can think to do is raise his hands and open his mouth, showcasing his teeth which lay in a grisly state.

I smash the porcelain against his head repeatedly, over and over and over again until I draw blood. Out of his mouth, out of his cheeks, out of his eyes. The lamp shatters after the umpteenth hit and the Peacekeeper collapses, his hands having the good sense to prise me away.

He seems blinded, but I doubt it. I targeted the mouth and I still do, jamming the porcelain bits into his jaw.

He's choking now, on the lamp that I'm shoving down his throat.

Screaming.

I'm screaming.

Horrifically screaming, eyes welling up, nose crinkled. My hand becomes bloody as I slam the shards of what once was a lamp into my own hand as I push them into _its_ face, unfazed by the pain.

It, yes, _it_ finally throws me away and I land softly on the carpet as _it_ cries in pain.

"Nadine! What the _fuck_ have you done?"

I glance to my right in my crazed state and there stands the person I least want to see in this moment.

Hansel.

His suit is stretched as his hands grip the door frame. He's in shock, probably from _it_ and what I did to it.

Did I kill it?

 _Who cares! It hurt your family, Nadine!_

Nobody hurts my family.

No.

What have I done?

Oh my God.

They're going to kill me.

Where are they?

"Hansel, where are the other Peacekeepers?"

"They just l-left, with your f-fucking siblings."

I turn to the Peacekeeper, lying motionless on the floor. I hurriedly crawl over to his face, closing my eyes like a little girl, as if I could avoid it.

Few ceramics are stuffed in his mouth while most are lodged in his face, causing bleeding. One in the eye, none in the neck.

A good sign.

My fingers shake as I raise them to his neck. My mother taught me this, checking the pulse. You see if a person is still alive by the blood rushing to their vital organs.

I turn my head to face Hansel as a wave of relief washes over me, better than everything I've experienced in my life.

I haven't killed him.

His blood drips onto my finger as I try to count the rapid beating I feel through my finger. What's the rule? The number of beats in six seconds multiplied by ten? Oh Lord, it's too fast to count.

 _Anything abnormally fast accounts for shock, Nadine. You'll be able to tell the difference between an exercised heart and a shocked heart_.

My mother, what would she do?

I close my eyes as I speak. "Hansel, close the door. You have to help me."

Lord, I can't believe I'm saying this.

"We need to hide him. He's still alive, just unconscious."

Hansel stares back at me, his eyes doing all the talking I need. He too is in shock, but not as severe as my victim. He's panicking.

"W-W-Why the fuck- what did you do?" Hansel yells, obviously distressed.

"Shh! Shut up! We can't be found like this, I swear, they'll kill us!"

"Fuck!"

All my life I've been quiet and disciplined. All my life I've done what I've needed to do, avoiding any confrontation that may cause harm to my family. Yet now, in the face of death, I've cracked.

I empty the Peacekeeper's mouth of porcelain, his saliva running over my hand. I ignore the awful, sticky sensation in favour of preserving his- and my own -life.

I hide the broken ceramics behind the red velvet couch as Hansel kneels down and cleverly uses a soft placemat that lay nearby to soak up a majority of the blood that spilled over the Peacekeeper's face from his wounds.

I continuously check his pulse, unsure whether its slowing is a good or bad thing. I presume bad as I sit him upwards and remove the porcelain from his eye. A sickly gunk oozes from the wound by the iris, something that I hope could be fixed, for his sake.

I feel like shit, regret kicking me in the stomach over and over and over again. My mind questions itself as Hansel and I peer out into the hall, finding the coast clear.

 _How will you handle yourself in the games if you can't even hurt a Peacekeeper without feeling bad, Nadine?_

 _How will you kill another child?_

It's tormenting, it's _torturing_ and I know this event will haunt me for the rest of my days.

I silently thank my brothers for being such nuisances and holding off the other Peacekeepers for so long. Hansel takes the top and I take the bottom end of the Peacekeeper and together, we silently haul him upwards and out the door, making a beeline for the spiral stairs entrance that begins roughly thirty feet down from our door.

It's an effort, Hansel walking backward up _spiral stairs_ and, to his credit, not tripping once. We're forced to bend the Peacekeeper's body around the pillar that sprawls upward from the ground floor, way below our current level. An awful cracking sound can't stop us as we keep going upwards, Hansel arse-sliding off to the side as we reach the top.

I presume we're in an attic or something seeing we're surrounded by unlabeled boxes full of stuff we don't have enough time to investigate. We lay the Peacekeeper sitting up against a wooden support and I again take the time to check his pulse.

Slowing.

I change my mind and _hope_ this is a good thing as I frantically glance at Hansel, prodding him forward and back down the stairs.

I let my breath go once we reach the bottom and see the coast still clear. We hightail it back to my room and madly dart around, searching for any remaining evidence that could incriminate us.

Thank God we don't find any and we end up laying on the velvet couch, panting.

I fucking got away with it.

I can't think about anything else except what Hansel and I just did.

We hid a body.

An alive body, an injured body, but we hid a body nonetheless.

"Is it bad I got a kick of adrenaline out of that?"

Hansel's turns to me, his red face a mix of perplexity, awe and dissent.

"Yes. It's extremely fucking bad. Actually, no, it's good. You'll be able to hide my body once you kill me now. Well done, Nadine. You're prepared for the games."

"I wasn't planning on killing you. Don't be so quick to judge."

"Ah, fuck it. I have three weeks to live, Nadine. Let's face it; I'm not making it out of that arena. Do you expect me to be happy fucking chappy?"

No, I don't. In fact, I'm as nervous as he is. "There's always hope in this world, Hansel. Look at what we just did. We should be incarcerated for the serious impairment of a Peacekeeper, but we're not."

"I played no fucking part in that! You dragged me in with your little death threat!

"Why did you help me then?"

"What?"

"If I dragged you in, why did you obey me and help me?"

"I-I... fuck you, okay Nadine? I don't know what you're trying to do, but it won't work. You can try and play me with your little mind games, but I will _never_ fall for anything you try and pull, got it?"

I look away and roll my eyes, relieved Hansel isn't some knight in shining armour but still his foul-mouthed old self.

"Right, you two. Time to go."

Wolffdene stands at the door, his voice empty of any emotion.

"Sorry for the delay, your brothers gave the Peacekeepers a real hard time, Nadine. Ah- don't worry, I made sure the two injured in the hall received medical treatment."

"Are they okay?" I ask frenetically, concerned for Sasha and Luka, my two brothers who love me so dearly they took beatings from Peacekeepers just to try and stay with me a little longer before I'm sent into a death pageant.

"I sure hope so, though they didn't look too bad."

"Thank God, oh, thank you Wolffdene," I gasp, heart settling with the news.

"My pleasure. Follow me, if you will."

I follow both Wolffdene and Hansel, Hansel's small stature squeezing in front of me, probably him trying to assure his dislike for me. It doesn't affect me, however. That boy helped me cheat death, even if he is a foul-mouthed spoiled brat four years younger than me.

This doesn't mean we have to be friends, but I now owe him a debt. I couldn't have hidden that body myself and either way, Hansel could have called the Peacekeepers on me.

I would've been shot.

No questions asked.

Yet, he didn't. We got away with it and now, as we trail our escort to the vehicle that will transport us to the train, I decide I must protect this boy.

Never mind that he's arrogant. Never mind that he's rude. Never mind that I loathed him before this incident. I'm loyal and I repay debts.

Even if it must be from afar due to his hateful nature, I'll make sure this boy survives until it comes down to us. Then, well...

Once again, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it-

Oh, Lord give me strength.

"Hansel."

He turns. "What?"

"Why have your pants split?"

"Why are you looking down there, huh Nadine?"

God, this is going to be a long three weeks.

* * *

 **Boy oh boy, I had fun with this.**

 **I thought you guys might want some action so I fashioned this together. I managed to obey the requests of both submitters and also craft something a little out of the ordinary, so I hope you enjoy, considering I feel quite proud of this chapter.**

 **Of course, we've met Nadine and Hansel now and we are now onto the train chapters after this beautiful mess of a chapter. Hansel isn't next chapter, but we'll be seeing the Eight tributes again fairly soon.**

 **I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter and I thank everyone who voted in the poll I whipped up last week. Weekly was the most-voted-for option, so for now, I'll be updating weekly at least.**

 **Anyways, God bless you all after that swear-a-thon and thank you for reading!**


	10. Volunteered: Celine

Celine Harper, 17, District 3:

Considering Three is almost fully white, grey and everything in between, it didn't surprise me the one place I hadn't ever been in the District was as well.

The train station- well, train _platform_ is literally a couple grey brick slabs with a withering old hut positioned on top of it, accompanied by a withering old stationmaster to create a matching pair.

He waves at us as the pixie cut in front of me turns and grins. Our escort, Mahari, stops Bertie, my District partner, and I as I hear the Black Maria that brought us here struggle to speed away behind us. The only real vehicles that exist in Three belong to either the _extremely_ wealthy or the Capitol, though as I've seen on television, most people walk there anyway.

"Bertie, Celine! Your mentors shall be meeting us here! Oh, goody! I'm sure you'll love them!"

It begins to rain a little as I take a seat on the polished wooden bench that lines the concrete edge of the platform. Mahari paces back and forth talking to herself about how great the reaping was while Bertie stands awkwardly as we wait for both our mentors and the train to arrive.

I wonder what my siblings would be feeling. Seeing I'm the youngest of six, I doubt they batted an eyelid. As the assistant to my father, Talia was away with him on some engineering expedition out in the sticks, probably at some outpost up north or something.

She had an excuse, I mean, every other sibling of mine lives in town and they didn't show up to see me. Just Mother and I it was, all alone in the Justice Building, hugging and promising to come home. Will it be an easy task?

Who knows!

Seeing I have the stereotypical tribute from Three alongside me; a scruffy nerd boy closer to twelve than eighteen. Yes, I might have to count out a close alliance unless I work my charm quickly. Three days of training we'll have, the third day also housing the private sessions. I don't know what I'll do there, but I'm sure I'll think of something.

Following that will be the score reveal, something I need to keep in mind seeing it has proven so crucial in the past few years, with heavily supplied Careers getting further and further than ever in the almost predictable yearly pageant.

Finally, the interviews, where I'll make up for anything I lose in score. I'll flaunt myself, both physically and personality-wise, to achieve as much as possible in way of aid.

"Ah! Here they are now!"

Tier Irvine, the young yet retrospective and secluded Three victor that has mentored more than most in recent years, rounds the corner dressed in a grey sweater which makes his striking blonde hair stick out like a sore thumb. Next to him is an older woman who has always been seen as the face of Three, at least in the Capitol's eyes.

Nacelle Ziegler.

Ever since winning her games so many years ago, she's been the Capitol's star. Soaking up the limelight like so many before her, she went far. She was heavily sponsored thanks to her looks and personality and oh, she just has to be perfect for me.

We're instructed to stand and greet our mentors by Mahari and soon enough, a metallic locomotive flies around a corner a good mile away and eventually comes to a halt by our congregation.

It stands high above us and I recognise it as quite the feat of engineering and design. Would certainly make Father go mad; I can imagine him rushing to inspect and learn about every detail.

An entryway lay right in front of me, an arch, high and wide yet made of of shiny silver like everything else. I cast my eyes left and right as the mentors enter, noticing the sheer amount of curves and soft edges it holds, almost personifying it yet those features were there only to streamline it. Hard to think it came out of such a place as Six.

Inside the metallic theme continued, the glimmering silver flowing through wood and white, creating for a wondrous tricolour effect. Silver surrounds, wooden furniture, frames and floor grates and white modernised amenities and accessories. I can imagine the Capitol's top designers oversaw such a project.

I glide around, dancing across the three materials that meet in swirls that adorn the floor; bright yet sumptuous silver connecting with blinding, modern white meeting with fancy and battle-worn mahogany alike.

I turn back, smiling at Bertie. My mind flutters with the thoughts of the experiences that will be offered to us this next week, in a place unaffected by misery, hardships or grief. All the food, oh, the many varieties of plentiful dishes we will taste, the sights we will see, the marvels of design we will be wearing!

I rush away from the group and through a double-door that lets its air go when I near it, sliding open at my presence. I find myself in a wide open room with a gloriously huge TV at its centre. Beside that are two doors similar to the one I just entered through, one with 'M' and the other with 'F' sprawled over it in, I guess trendy script? It almost seems auspicious in its own way.

Seeing I'm female last time I checked I enter through the door marked 'F' and find my bedroom. Strewn over the bed in front of me are countless amounts of clothes, dresses really, overlapping one another in their plight for bed dominance.

 _Guess they can't afford wardrobes_.

I crack myself up at my own thought.

To my surprise, there is a wardrobe to the left of the doorway, concealed by it's lack of handles or knobs or anything to open it. I simply step forward and it opens, packed with more clothes. Seems the ones on my bed, the _seventeen_ ones on my bed, are just the beginning.

I remember I'm still dressed I'm my denim dress from the reapings and thus change into a flowing red dress that extends just past my knees. I throw off my sandals and pull on some fluffy slippers that match my dress, not caring for fashion sense in the slightest.

With it being nearer lunch time than breakfast, I trot out to the car in which I entered from the station, which I presume to be the dining car or at least the lounge car, and search for the others. I look through a window in the TV room and find we've already set off and I haven't even noticed.

I enter again into the stunning car that contains just Bertie with a plate stacked a good mile high with sweet foods, most of which I can't even name. He turns at the release of air behind him when I enter and throws a cheesy grin at me, cutlery in hand.

I rush to the buffets at the opposite end of the car and for a good hour we dine together, feasting over what must be everything that's sweet in the world. No avoxes to guard us, no mentors or escorts to hound us, we talk.

I learn more about Bertie Taylor, the once shy boy who has morphed into a ball of joy with the help of a few pounds of chocolate cake. His family is poor thanks to his father's job as a computer programmer catering to a small and limited market. He thinks it was the tesserae that did it for him.

"Y'know how," Bertie smacks through a mouthful of mint ice cream, "the tesserae is available before the Quell is announced?"

"Yeah," I reply, having taken tesserae myself for the times when Father's away.

"Well," Bertie goes in for another spoonful. "Not knowing it was the May-borns who'd be reaped and having fifteen slips in the bowl probably didn't, y'know, go too good for me."

I'd imagine that would've happened in other Districts as well, pre-taken tesserae determining the fates of May-borns.

"Oh! We'll have to watch the reaping recaps tonight!" I say excitedly, memories resurfacing. Memories of my mother always forbidding me from spending any more money than we had to at home, which usually meant missing anything interesting on TV when we turned the power off every night.

Bertie agrees, noting that he'll bring the ice cream tub from the buffet with him. It plagues me to think I may have to back-stab this bubbly young boy to sustain my own survival.

I spend my time lounging in the final car, the viewing car, as I call it. I find myself constantly switching between the comfy green lounges that laden the walls inside and the hardy Paimio chairs that reside on the back deck of the train. Eventually, sunset comes and I reflect on the day and its events, as I like to do back home.

Home.

Where is home? Where are we now?

Judging by surrounds, it looks like One, maybe? Tall cliffs line the horizon while a green-blue river lies to our left, covered by thick, bushy trees. It's quite picturesque.

 _Would make for a good arena_.

My thoughts quickly turn to the reaping as I glare content at the valleys around me. How I waved to the crowd, soaking up the attention, glee overcoming me and quelling any fear I could possibly muster. I remember standing tall as Bertie's family wept for him, a fact that hurts me in a way I never anticipated as I recall it here on this train.

God, what have I done?

 _You volunteered to be in the Hunger Games, Celine._

 _You volunteered to die_.

All these years I've strayed from technology and engineering and everything my District specialises in because I don't want to be normal.

I want to be different; I want to escape poverty, grief and everything else that comes with being from a District.

When I grew older, that longing to be different grew a new branch.

My siblings.

Carbon copies of each other, all specialising in roughly the same field, settling for simple lives yet still being the apple of everyone's eye. Every one of them older than me, every one of them surviving the reapings, I took my chance.

Now I'm here.

I better make the most of it.

Soon enough, night falls and I head back inside to meet Bertie for the eight o'clock reaping recap. I enter the cool room and for the first time notice the wooden grates that were also present in the dining room, letting the air conditioning flow in.

Bertie faces the TV which depicts two extravagantly- if exaggeratedly -dressed Capitolites whose names flash across the bottom of the screen as I take a seat next to the promised tub of ice cream Bertie must have brought, the chosen flavour being strawberry.

"It's starting!"

"So welcome all Capitolites and District people, to this; the Seventh Quarter Quell reaping recap." A relatively calm yet eccentric Capitolite announces as him and his coworker fade away while One's symbol acts as a transition.

I shove a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth as the One escort begins- luckily Bertie had the good sense to bring two spoons -and we're underway. The escort, who is introduced as Gleek Frisket, is very jumpy in her speech delivery, her purple-crimson bangs swaying in the light breeze that ruffles the few palm trees in front of the multicolour buildings that make up the background behind her.

"Faberge Dynama!" she announces, reaping ball having only contained one name.

"Academies. She must've been the only one born in May," I say aloud after seeing Bertie and his perplexed look after the shot of the reaping ball.

Cameras pan to a blonde girl, hidden in a sea of white clothing. Her shocked blue eyes close for a second, maybe uttering a prayer or something, before she springs off and up to the stage, smiling and waving a little.

"Typical Career," Bertie says. "Confused about themselves, I bet."

"Mm, maybe. I don't know if I can see her killing someone." It's hard to get past those babyish looks.

"Manipulator, possibly?" Bertie says, turning to me with his spoon sticking out of his mouth.

"Possibly."

The boy gets called, Basil, his name is, and stands completely still, frozen in shock. His tied-back brown hair immovable in the breeze yet his light blue eyes throwing themselves in all sorts of directions.

He eventually stumbles back into consciousness and is herded to the stage by Peacekeepers who walk slowly behind him. Gleek helps him up and eventually returns to the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes for District One!"

The screen fades as she thanks everything for coming out, seeming more human than a Capitolite should.

"What about him?" I ask Bertie.

"Mmm... I don't see him as a Career."

"I agree." That boy seems too scared.

The main square of Two arrives before our eyes next, mountains serving as the backdrop to a gathering of already rugged masons. Not rugged is the girl tribute, who calmly walks to the stage after volunteering, her twisty brown hair lapping at her breastplate.

"Average."

"You don't think she's a Career?" Bertie replies.

"Probably is, but she seems too calm."

The boy is next and, well, nothing needs to be said abut him. Volunteer, short blonde hair, blue eyes, muscular, tall, grinning ominously;

"Death machine."

Bertie sighs. "I'll steer clear."

Soon enough, our seal flashes across the screen and Mahari appears, dancing her way toward the reaping balls as she did in front of me this morning. I spy Bertie's eyes are glued to the screen, the ice cream melting quickly without his repeated scoffing to keep them somewhat solid.

"It's us, Celine!"

Indeed I'm reminded again of my somewhat peculiar reaction, if you will, after I volunteered. However, Bertie doesn't seem as confused as the rest of the District was- not that they would understand.

My heart is wrenched as I see what Bertie had to deal with while I soaked up my predicament. His crying parents and his own trembling body as he shuffles toward the stage. I paid him no attention until I had to.

I look again at Bertie, his expression sombre. Mahari announces us as tributes and quickly throws us through the Justice Building doors and we're saved by the District Four symbol that takes us away from the bleak sight that is Three.

No words are said as an overcast sky sets in over the beachfront square of Four. The ocean behind the escort is a refreshing sight as one of three slips is pulled from the girls bowl and read out by the escort.

"Rhyley Tevin!"

A girl about fifteen stops and stares in shock but is saved by a familiar call from across the square.

Already running toward the stage, a girl with light blonde hair and sparkling green eyes waves to the cameras, blowing a kiss as she meets the escort, his green dreadlocks flowing in the rather strong wind.

Claps echo around the square when the girl announces herself as Vera Earle and looks on intently as yet another volunteering occurs. The boy, dressed in a white collared shirt and brown pants, bounds up to the stage as the girl did, smiling and receiving more applause.

"They look strong," Bertie notes.

"They're very... showy."

"All smiles, yeah."

"Threat?"

"Yes."

I would have thought Five to have been the first of the boring reapings, but I was wrong. When the girl was reaped, oh boy did she go off. Cursing aloud and storming to the stage, knocking the escort's handshake offering away. Everything about her screams rebel.

The boy, on the other hand, was young and dressed smartly in a dark blue dress shirt and some fancy, if scuffed up, grey trousers. What caught my eye though, is a hat I know signifies something rare.

"A kippah?" Bertie says, noticing the same as I.

"Do you think he-"

"Jewish? Yeah, yeah, he's Jewish."

God, he's brave. To publicly show religious affiliation is, well, unheard of. He could get in real trouble.

Unless his family is powerful enough to evade the law.

The Jewish boy, Atom, his name is, gulps as his name is called, eyes darting around, seeking help. Boys bigger than him begin to push, but he still doesn't move.

"He's just delaying the inevitable," I think aloud.

Eventually, Peacekeepers begin rattling down towards Atom, their footsteps the only noises radiating around Five's dreary grey square. He quickly bursts toward the stage, one hand on his head and the other whipping around alongside him.

The boy is pulled onto the stage by one of the few mentors I recognise; a now aging Nere Okayama, dressed in a bright red sweater. He gently guides Atom to stand next to his District partner, whose eyes burn holes in the camera lenses when the escort finally announces the pair as the tributes for Five.

We barely have time to gather our thoughts before a rainy square in Six falls before our eyes. A little boy who could only be twelve begins to cry as his name is called, a girl older than him calling his name being brutally constrained by the Peacekeepers.

"Poor thing," I say, receiving no reply from Bertie.

We cut to another square in the District, murkier and more industrial than the other. There's actually an escort here, rather than a big TV showing a broadcast of one like in the last. Here, a coffee-skinned girl with oddly over-sized glasses gets called.

"She's covered in dirt!" Bertie exclaims.

Indeed, this girl, Florina, is caked in dirt from her t-shirt down to her jeans. Makes me question what she does for a living.

For the first time, I hear the Capitolites presenting this fiasco of a recap talk, the TV volume so low I strain myself to pick up their silly accents.

"Definitely an outlandish outfit!"

"Could we make a trend out of that?"

"Why don't we ask our viewers? Vote in our poll now!"

Meaningless.

I turn my attention back to Florina and her slight smile as she makes her way towards the escort. Some food for thought from Six, I conclude.

District Seven has to be the pick o' the bunch so far; I mean, I'd recognise those uniforms anywhere.

Surrounded by fellow crazies in strait jackets, handcuffs and more, two young prisoners who share a surname are reaped. They take the stage together in some remote logging town and stand, emotionless.

"Bertie, do you know who they are?"

"No, but they have questionable fashion taste," he replies, referencing the white shirts and black trousers they both wear, number stickers strewn across the hems of both.

"Bertie, they're prisoners."

My District partner's jaw drops.

"Y-Y-You don't think they... k-k-"

"I don't know, but stay away from them, okay?"

"Okay," Bertie agrees, looking a little shaken. "D-Do you think it's... rigged?"

The idea froths in my mind. "So they- so they die?"

"Y-Yeah," Bertie quivers.

"I-I don't- maybe," I conclude, my mind relapsing to these tributes and their emotionless expressions. Are they really murderers?

Would the Capitol really send them to die?

Fortunately, I don't have to dwell on the prospect of death for too long, with District Eight's heavily damaged Justice Building now fading into my view. The escort seems outside the norm for the Capitol, with slicked grey hair and seemingly no cosmetic surgery, he announces the girl with a surprising amount of monotone in his voice.

Said girl is calm when she's called, though she seems as if she's hiding her fear. Her District partner on the other hand, well.

He begins by cursing aloud and pushing the kids around him out of the way. He's a big boy to say the least, his grey suit stretching so much a button flies off as he stomps his way to the stage, complaining and cursing altogether.

To top it all off, he attacks some Peacekeepers and makes a smart remark about how he was going to volunteer anyway.

"God, is anyone in this thing approachable?" Bertie says, finishing the last of the ice cream. My appetite's gone, so it doesn't bother me.

District Nine's main square fills my line of sight, the high shot allowing us to see the outskirts of the town and the freshly-trimmed wheat spears, golden in the morning sun. The Gothic architecture of the Justice Building soon looms over the escort, who announces herself with some overly complicated name that the mayor struggles with, before getting started.

Turns out to be a very emotional one in Nine, with what seems to be a couple getting reaped, although I think the boy would have volunteered anyway, unlike the Eight guy who wouldn't even contemplate such a thing.

The first Ten square seems almost a carbon copy of the one from Nine with only Nine's Justice Building and Ten's lack of differentiating between them, at least in my mind. The presenter makes some joke about grain and gets promptly told to sock it by his co-host as the escort begins over the televisions stacked square-wide, drawing out a girl who immediately begins bawling her eyes out at her reading.

She refuses to move and eventually has to be forcefully dragged by the Peacekeepers, crying all the way. She's stood on the stage as the boy is called but immediately crumples to the floor when she's left by herself. However, I don't feel much sympathy for her.

"She'll probably end up an ally," Bertie says out of nowhere.

"Huh? You're gonna ally with her? She's a wreck!"

"Well, look at her! How could I not?"

Something begins to tell me Bertie's a bit of a ladies man, judging off of his dismissal of the Six boy but approval of the Ten girl.

"Well, what are you looking for then?"

"A lot of people... the more the merrier!"

"The more the deadlier," I retort. "More people to back-stab you."

"Oh, look at her, Celine. You think _she_ would back-stab anyone?"

I leave the debate and turn my focus back to the new square that actually holds the escort we just saw. Here, my own attention is caught.

Obviously nervous and trying his best not to trip as he worriedly strides toward the stage is a cute guy like no other. Combed black hair, mesmerising sky blue eyes, protruding jawline, oh God.

I want _him_ in an alliance.

"Thoughts?" Bertie says, snapping me out of my trance.

"Um, uh, probably never h-handled a weapon before, yeah."

My eyes dart back to the TV as quickly as possible and find the clumsy hunk accidentally whacking his escort in the face and promptly apologising, getting shoved out of the way by the enraged intricately detailed cupcake that is the Capitolite.

The presenters have begun pissing themselves laughing at the mishap, probably for a number of reasons outside the comedic value of the event. Who knows, they probably have a grudge for that escort.

District Eleven arrives quicker than it should, though that feeling could be attributed to my dreamy brain after Ten. Orchards surround this muddy little square, one single, big television portraying yet another eccentric escort for the minimal crowd to gaze at.

Said escort starts strong, cracking a few admittedly decent jokes before getting right down to business. A small, dark-skinned, doe-eyed young girl with a lovely name- Larkspur, it is -is called, making her way past the one other boy in her area and to the bare stage in front of her.

When she stops moving the cameras get a clean shot of her; eyes down, teeth chattering, knees knocking and causing her old, frayed dress to shift and crease constantly. She doesn't strike me as the crying type.

"Another one for your alliance?" I ask Bertie, who's been rolling about uncomfortably for the entirety of Ten and now Eleven.

"Mm... possibly. I dunno, she doesn't seem like the alliance type."

I can see what he means; maybe she's had a troubled past. That's all my brain can think up at this time of night, anyway.

Her new District partner in another square doesn't seem to have had a troubled past however, smiling and jogging excitedly toward the stage at the call of his name. Though, when he reaches the stage, he stops.

His tall, dark frame loses all momentum and excitement and I can tell the horrors of the Hunger Games have reached his mind.

 _What have you done, Celine?_

Just as they did mine.

"He's hard to tell."

"Yeah," I reply, lacking any conversational skills due to my fatigue and non-interest.

District Twelve's dreary black-grey exterior hardly lights up the screen as the presenters make a fuss about it being the last District to recap.

Really, I just want to go to bed.

The fiery red hair of a shocked female tribute draws my attention once more as the camera pans to her distraught family. The three little kids standing alone, no mother or father. Makes me question the backstory of this girl and how sad it could turn out to be.

On the stage, her light blue dress stands still in the stale air that comes with revolving a place around coal mining. The boy is soon announced, with a tall, menacing creature in a black hoodie eventually stepping forward. He seems well off but also ominous as he chuckles, walking slowly to the stage.

This guy easily outsizes some Peacekeepers who converge a little at his presence, hands on holsters.

Great.

Another psycho to go with the two from Seven and, most likely, the boy from Two.

Can't wait.

"Avoid," I say at the same time as Bertie, neither of us yelling jinx afterwards, probably out of pure exhaustion. My eyes study the clock. Eleven. Mahari and the mentors are probably enjoying drinks together far up in the train.

They may have fun, but we certainly won't. No, the Hunger Games isn't about fun.

The Hunger Games is about death.

* * *

 **Nice summary there, Celine. Definitely not stating the obvious or anything.**

 **So this is a day early, but here's Celine Harper, contemplating what is indeed a bad move; volunteering for the games and all that. Here we've also met Bertie Taylor, her District partner, whose chapter will not be coming for a while.**

 **So! The first train chapter! Well, how'd ya like it? This was fun to write; I like writing about Capitol events such as the reaping recaps, score reveals and etc. I'm looking forward to more Capitol stuff! Are you?**

 **I'm not entirely decided on how many train chapters there will end up being, so if next update is a little late then that's me deciding on how best to work my schedule. I really want to do every tribute justice and their scene choice is a vital part of that.**

 **Anyways, I've gone on a bit of a tangent, so I'll end here. Thank you for reading!**


	11. Rotten Apple: Hansel

**More heavy swearing in this chapter- you guessed it, it's your bears from earlier. Believe me though; there is a _lot_ of swearing in this- if you're not into that then get in touch with me (PM specifically) and I can give you the lowdown on what happens in this chapter. There's nothing overly bad here, it's just Hansel's vocabulary is mainly made up of expletives.**

* * *

Hansel Gretchen, 14, District 8:

I pile up all sorts of breakfast foods onto my porcelain plate- croutons, scones, a slice of quiche, crêpes -what I want and as much as I want, as per usual.

Father and I could never go out for food back home, no, I _hated_ spending time in any peasant establishment, let alone giving them money for any service.

I make my way away from the buffet station and toward the one manned by avox chefs. I clang my plate down, porcelain colliding noisily with the hard metal. I've made no space for any meal, but still I bark at the pathetic-looking dogs before me.

"Poached egg! Sunny side up! Quicksmart!"

Almost instantaneously the avoxes get to work, one cracking an egg and the other dripping oil into a pan. The woman on the left, her brown hair tied in a bun, seems to be shaking fearfully, her infamous red uniform moving with her knobbly knees which clack together at every opportunity.

Sunny morning light floods in through the windows behind both the man and the woman, the only sight for miles outside being still green fields, lit up in the fresh sunlight. The man, spiked brown hair shielding my eyes from the light, whips around his tiny quarters, gathering herbs and chopping them for seasoning, all the while being stuck in a do-si-do with his female counterpart, both of them scrambling around manically.

"Hurry up!" I yell, feeding myself at their displeasure and the new beads of sweat rolling off their foreheads.

I'm gonna give these Capitol cunts hell.

I take a messy bite into my mystery quiche, which I quickly find out holds melted cheese and bacon bits. I don't show my pleasure at this discovery, however.

Instead, I slide my plate to the end of the station, the porcelain grating against the metal and creating an queasy screech as it goes along. I'm surprised when my poached egg comes back, sunny side up, sprinkled with herbs and accompanied by a creamy sauce which I can't name, even with my vast knowledge of condiments.

The avoxes have done well, though I won't tell them that.

I disregard my fork and use my bare hands, picking up the gooey white exterior and biting down hard, right in front of the avoxes. Their expressions range from mild frustration to despair at the destruction of their work, pleasuring my desire for their pain.

Dripping down my chin, the sickly, slimy yolk eventually droops onto my new dressing gown, staining the fluffy blue material. The egg itself tastes magnificent; still, though, I moan and spit at the avoxes, mouth full of half-digested egg I regurgitated to hurl at them.

I land a clean shot on the woman, beginning to laugh my head off before she rushes around in a panic, appalled at the mix of my bodily fluids and her food now that now resides on her collar. I begin to choke as I watch her slam head on into the man, my laughter taking me over and blocking my windpipe.

They both go down and I steady myself while I'm out of view, choking down the remaining bits of egg and breathing air back into my lungs.

I leave the food car satisfied, plate in hand.

Nadine, Wolffdene and our two mentors Sorren Balor and Harley Davis await me, all seated together at the dining table. Sorren cowers in his own fear as I approach.

Weakling. Last night, I watched both his and Harley's games alone, along with the recap and God, his win was the biggest fluke I've ever seen.

Sorren Balor, age fifteen, acts a sissy for a week before hiding in a shack for the entirety of his games until a murderous group of mutts begin slashing his competition down to a tee. He won because he could climb a tree.

Pathetic.

I could only imagine the pain that particular Head Gamemaker felt if every Capitolite shared my feelings about that shitshow.

Harley Davis, meanwhile, actually fought for her win, solidifying her place as District Eight's only true victor for a good fifty years.

"Sit down, Hansel," Wolffdene hollers.

"Fucks sake Wolffdene," I rebut, angry at his orders. "I just got through the fucking door."

Wolffdene sighs, the old sod having become accustomed to me already, it seems.

I take my seat, throwing a crouton up into the air and catching it in my mouth to show off, almost choking for the end result which receives me no applause.

"Isn't that a bit much, Hansel?" Nadine asks, referring to my stacked plate of food.

Nadine, decked head to toe in her nightgown, takes bites of a lemon meringue pie as she plays with her hair. "Nadine, you're named after a dessert. Don't you think you should be asking yourself that question?"

"What?"

"The pavlova is a dessert, Nadine. God, is your skull that thick?"

"So," Wolffdene begins, cutting us off. "You were saying, Harley?"

The young victor hums, tying her fiery orange hair back and taking a sip of coffee as she seemingly picks up where she left off. "They killed what remained of my family for what I did; my mother, father and-"

"What did you do?" I ask, taking a bite out of my quiche and instantaneously reaching for the salt as the taste registers.

"Opposed them. I opposed the Capitol during my games and they killed my entire family. Old man Saint-Blaise; he slit their throats!" Harley croaks, voice cracking at the mention of the now retired Arson Saint-Blaise who ruled during the time of Harley's games.

"That's one thing you can't d-do," Sorren mutters, turning our heads, my attention fixating between his words and Wolffdene, the Capitolite, who wears a grave expression. "You can't oppose them. They'll k-kill you."

"I was too strong of a contender to die by the Gamemakers," Harley explains, "Blaise and his lackies knew that. I haven't seen you guys train yet, but one thing I have seen are your attitudes. You _have_ to keep control of that if you want to live."

"Live?" I yell, speaking how I did when Father said something stupid back home. "We're going into a death game fuck sake! Only one of us can live, idiot!"

"I'm addressing you both individually, Hansel."

I stuff a handful of croutons into my mouth and butter up a scone, giving me time to think of a comeback. "You're still a fuckwit."

"Ugh, no wonder I've heard so much about you," Harley replies, trying to be smart.

"What can I say? People love me."

"Are you delusional?" Harley starts again. "You think people love you when you treat them like they're a piece of shit?"

Bitch. I spit the few chewed-up croutons that remain in my mouth at Harley, which hit her square in the chin.

"You little prick!"

I laugh as Harley stands and orders an avox to fetch her a serviette. Harley catches my joy and breaks away from the avox who got stuck cleaning her tunic of my spit. Harley throws her hands at her sauce-covered plate as if to hit it at me, though it doesn't go more than two feet. I shove more handfuls of croutons into my mouth.

"You trying to ruffle the tablecloth, dear?" I mock, cackling. Anything to piss this hothead off. "If so, you've succeeded."

This only enrages the mentor who sends her hands swinging around wildly, hitting a glass of orange juice down, all over the tablecloth _and_ Nadine.

Sorren eventually steps in, taking Harley by the shoulders and whispering something to her while Nadine shrieks and curses, leaving Wolffdene looking like he wants to die. Fair enough. He's at the age.

"The brat can die for all I care!" Harley calls out of nowhere as Wolffdene shakes his head solemnly and Nadine storms out for a change of clothes. That bitch is obviously referencing me.

That does it.

On the Lazy Susan that lies in the middle of table is a bowl of mixed sauces and herbs. Quickly, while Harley is still facing away and talking to Sorren, I reach for the dish, picking it up, flipping it and throwing it at the bitch's back as Sorren curses and Wolffdene looks up.

A wide variety of sauces and condiments become a mixed canvas on the dark blue background that is Harley's patterned tunic. She turns, back crunching as the porcelain bowl collides with a bang, which turns out to be Wolffdene's head continuously knocking itself against the table.

Another bang occurs when the bowl hits the floor and shatters as Harley turns, furious. I don't think I've _ever_ seen _anyone_ so angry- not even Mom... from what I remember.

So I run. I run out of the room, half grinning, half scared shitless.

I power into the TV room, my gown flapping and exposing my belly. I slow down as I approach my bedroom door, opening it one-handed and spying the mess of clothes laden across the linoleum floor. Cool air rushes up my gown as I rumble through the wardrobe, dropping my plate on my bad and caring not for whatever quality of clothes I destroy with my rapid movements.

I settle for a comfortable flannel shirt and snatch one of the many animal print blankets off my bed, the chosen print being leopard spotted. Dragging everything out, I fall down on the heated couch that acts as the centrepiece of the room and reach for the TV remote.

There's fuck all on; Channel One showing makeover guides, Channel Two showing some talk show where the hosts discuss some retard called Nicol and how he's the "star of the Capitol", Channel Six showing music videos, Channel Sixteen showing a romantic film and Channel Thirty-Two showing _another_ replay of the reapings.

 _What a show that was_.

How many kids cried, I wonder? Weakling shits. The toughest of us will pound those runts.

Last night, while tired, I watched the recaps alone, Nadine wanting privacy and solidarity. By the end, I deduced that the only tributes important enough to remember were the Two boy, Four's pair and the Twelve boy. I mean, Seven's pair looked like weirdo mutes, Nine had goddamn lovers and One was completely out of character with- what were they, scared? Scared tributes?

Maybe this May-born thing is fucking everyone over and not just myself.

I decide to watch something good, reaching for the golden box filled with cassette tapes of past victors and their games. I hum to myself, thinking arduously about which one to pick and watch.

The tapes are labelled with the victor's name, District and the number of the games. The most recent tape, nearest to me, has 'Apia Savant, District One' scrawled on the side with the games number extending below. I run my finger back, my skin reacting to the scratchy texture of the tapes it touches. I'm engrossed in the feeling for a little bit, feeling bored, until some fancy handwriting catches my eye:

 _Harley Davis, District Eight (170)_.

Without thinking, I reach for the black box, spying inside the clear window by the name and noticing many reels of tape. I didn't expect it to be broken, but I had to check.

I pique with curiosity but also anger as I load the tape into the slot below the TV, my eyes watching eagerly as the screen fades from navy blue to black and the word 'PLAY' flashes in a yellow beam in the top left of the screen.

Over the next three hours, I munch away at the remainders of my breakfast and watch eagerly as Harley's games are recounted in every detail. At the reapings she scowled and swore. She was feisty, expressing her hate for the Capitol at almost every opportunity, raging at anyone who gave her orders or dared oppose her.

The interviews came and Harley made a fuss at the host, Claudia Flickerman. She was erratic, waving her hands and insulting Claudia verbally until she lost it when asked about her family.

"You don't have the _authority_ to ask me about that, slut!" Harley screamed, grabbing the normally olive-skinned Claudia who had miraculously turned a bright shade of red at Harley's grip. She was restrained by Peacekeepers but that didn't stop her outbursts at the rainbow haired host throughout the evening.

Harley's games eventually rolled around and she spent most of her time trekking toward the volcano that operated as the centrepiece of the entire arena. Harley knew it were to erupt during the games, so she spent her time moulding a barrier out of clay, rocks and stone slabs from a nearby village. Harley's barrier ended up being eight feet tall and extending almost half the width of the volcano itself.

When the eruption finally came and having not been attacked yet, Harley burrowed down into the basement of what she deemed the sturdiest structure in the nearby village and hoped for the best. She survived, completely uninjured, the remnants of the house being swept away in the pyroclastic flow of the volcano.

Harley had three opponents left, of the twelve alive before the eruption. The screen shifted to show how said opponents survived, all of which having outran the volcano to the outskirts of the arena. It was a free-for-all, any alliances being killed off by the fiery punishment inflicted by the gamemakers.

I felt a sense of awe for the first time in my life when I watched Harley brutally decapitate the Three girl and swing her axe straight into the guts of the Seven boy, giving the prick a taste of his own medicine before swapping out axe heads with said boy's previously unused weapon. In the black, charred, apocalyptic wasteland that was the remains of the arena, Harley screamed as she split the One boy down the middle after an intense fight that raged on for twenty minutes and involved a fair deal of running away.

The sounds of cheering flooded the arena as eighteen-year-old Harley sinked to her knees, the newly proclaimed victor of the one hundred and seventieth annual Hunger Games.

 _And they killed her family for her behaviour, Hansel._

 _Is that the route you really want to go down?_

Ah fuck it. I'm not gonna make it out of that shithole arena anyway. What's the point of not showing those pricks up?

My mind flashes back to the goodbyes room, where that sly bitch Nadine dragged me into her mess and I was forced to help her to save my own skin.

Not my proudest moment.

 _"There's always hope in this world, Hansel. Look at what we just did. We should be incarcerated for the serious impairment of a Peacekeeper, but we're not."_

Hope my ass.

I shake Nadine's words from my head, pushing any thought of my imminent death away as well. I reach for another tape- _Larringer Varey, District Eleven (171)_ -and binge for another six hours, slowly rolling through the day on the couch, Nadine only coming in once to change out of her gown. By early afternoon, strong sunlight and all different sorts of colours begin to stream in through the slitted shades that cover the outside world, stopping whatever resides there from looking in.

I ache as I rise from a state of laziness, cracking my neck and scratching my itches. Trotting towards where the light draws near, I press an almost invisible button that connects itself to whatever shade mechanism is attached to the small window. Instantaneously the flaps straighten out and the light flows in faster and harder, blinding me momentarily. When I come to, a godly manifesto of construction enters my field of view.

All sorts of buildings; tall, circular, cylindrical, even, line the way in front of me. The colours flow from beige through white to an unnatural sea of pink hue that can be seen in almost every corner of the city. Directly outside the window is a body of water that stretches from the golden beach on the edge of the city to the edge of the world, eventually flowing downward in a waterfall-like motion, below the train line and thus below my feet.

The train rounds the small curve in the tracks as it approaches the utopia, giving me a side view of the shriveled shores that extend away from the train line and make up the outskirts of the city. I realise my mouth is open, gawking at the sight before me before I'm rudely interrupted.

"So this... is the Capitol," a familiar feminine voice whispers from beside me. I'm not shocked Nadine sneaked in while I took in the sight of our destination, but it's enough to bring me back down to reality.

"Looks like a shithole," I reply, asserting my displeasure before Nadine.

"Nah, this doesn't look like Eight."

"What?"

"You don't think Eight's a shithole?"

"Fuck yes it is- what are you playing at, Nadine?"

"You don't think this is an upgrade from Eight?"

"No! It's filled with prissy little Capitolites who stick baguettes up their asses to keep their posture straight and good! At least Eight is filled with real, hard-working men, women and children."

Nadine sighs. "We'll see, Hansel. Come on, we're disembarking soon. Wolffdene sent me to get you. Harley's still pissed at you, so I'd steer clear if I was you."

"But you're not me, are you? She's just a moody bitch, don't worry."

Another sigh.

Nadine and I track out of the TV room and into the main car where both escort and mentors mingle, chatting to each other and turning their heads when we enter. Harley, it seems, has opted for a change of clothes after breakfast.

"Hurry up and get here," Harley snaps, her eyes boring through my soul. Luckily for me, Sorren, the capable man he is, stands in front of her and thus blocks any quick attack she could ever make as I take place at the door which we entered through and into the train a day ago now. After a little bit of waiting, the train ducks into a tunnel that loops downward and to the left, though we hardly feel the motion.

Lights flicker outside the train and it comes to a stop at a platform that is surrounded by darkness with only two lamps on either wall for light. The train door opens, releasing its air and deploying its flight of stairs for us to get down to ground level with. My feet meet the illuminated beige brick before anyone else and I stride toward the glass door that I presume is the underground entrance to the training centre.

Peacekeepers come from out of the woodwork as the blinding white halls become a mess or directions and Wolffdene takes over, guiding us near the entrance to two separate rooms where two equally retarded stylists stand, ready to greet us.

I instantly regret any enthusiasm I ever had when I came out of that train.

With a smile that shows off her tattooed teeth the female stylist introduces herself, curling her vowels and trilling her consonants.

"Hello you guys! What a _pleasure_ it is for us to meet again! Wolffdene, Sorren, Harley- and you two, of course! Let me guess, Nadine and Hans, am I right?"

Oh, for fucks sake.

"Hansel! It's _Hansel_ you inbred twit!"

"Excuse him," Wolffdene says in his dopey tone. "We've had a- we've had a rough day."

"Oh," the stylist begins again, "I see. Well, my name is Luria Tulrosa and I'll be your stylist, Hans!"

"Hansel!" I scream, anger brimming at the incompetent bitch before me. Fucking Capitolites.

"Yes, and I'm Ander Tulrosa," her partner pipes up, his sharpened teeth extending near his bottom lip, impairing his speech. I'm torn to think if he was born that way or had plastic surgery to join in on a trend. Anything's fucking possible in this place. "I'll be Nadine's!"

Nadine doesn't look thrilled.

The pink swirls that have been carved into Luria's teeth are shown once again when she grabs Ander's hand and raises it. "If you haven't noticed, we're twins!"

"We pride ourselves on being upbeat and happy!" Ander continues from his sister with glee.

I tune out as the goddamn twins proceed to do a little dance together and thus cause me to lose my will to live. I take in their appearance to save whatever desire to survive I have left; they have matching medium-length hair styled in bobs and also matching green eyes. They've styled their hair purple, brown and pink and they currently wear regal purple-white cloaks which fall to their knees.

God, what fucking plague struck the Capitol? They've resorted to wearing sheets of cloth for fucks sake.

Soon enough, the Tulrosa's routine has finished and Luria grabs my hand, dismissing everyone and leading me into her "preparation room" where _more_ fuckwits await. One grey-skinned, one yellow-skinned and one fucking well _multicolour_ -skinned.

"Hans! This is Teera, Feera and Luuk! They'll be your prep team!"

Floods of colours barrel towards me and I brace myself mentally, thinking the same thought over and over again as the freaks gloss over me and drag me to their work station;

 _End me._

 _End me now._

 _End my fucking life._

* * *

 **Hansel Gretchen on his own, everyone. This chapter honestly saddened me to write. Hansel is kinda depressing in the sense that he has little love in his life from anyone and treats everyone so badly. I can't help but feel how sucky it must feel to live his life.**

 **So, as for reasons why I took near to a month to write this chapter, well, w** **riter's block also took strong effect; I spent at least a week procrastinating only to get stuck on what to write about halfway through.**

 **I also had a splenectomy which is an operation to remove the spleen. Long story short, I'm all jacked up on painkillers and I was forced to prolong this chapter so I didn't disappoint anyone further if I spent what will be a month at home resting and most likely not writing. Sorry if anything in here is grammatically incorrect as well; I'm not really in the best shape or mindset and proofreading is boring.**

 **Seeing as I published this chapter on a Wednesday, I'll probably put the next one up by Sunday next week, just so we're back on schedule again and also because I might need a little more time to write the next one as well.**

 **I would appreciate some constructive criticism for this chapter, as I feel I didn't do overly well and I do want to justify every tribute in their own right, which means writing them well.**

 **Well, other than my continuous self-doubt, I'm sorry for any inconvenience over this month and I'm also sorry for rambling so long, though I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for reading!**


	12. Hunting High and Low: Falcon

**Oh boy! It's tribute interaction time, everyone!  
**

 **Also, my apologies for the wait on this one. I've been feeling a bit of burnout when it comes to writing and thus have been taking it slow for a while and doing- as well as considering -other things. Good things, don't get me wrong, but I tend to procrastinate like a god.** **My apologies once again.**

 **Fair warning also, quite a bit of swearing here _again_. I know this is a recurring theme, but for some of these tributes temper is key to their character.**

 **For now, however, I would like to present to you Falcon Farley!**

* * *

Falcon Farley, 17, District 7:

A strong smell of horse manure drenched in thick yet glossy air that circulates around and around without purpose, forever.

No escape.

Pessimistic, yes, but also truthful.

Poetic, Falcon.

You should be proud of your literacy.

Phoebe takes a gentle step by my side, abruptly ending my momentary daze and forcing my senses to kick in. I slowly breathe in our surroundings, taking hesitant, careful footfalls forward and out of the golden elevator that acted as our own charioteer, sailing gracefully to the ground level _barn_ of the training centre.

Charioteer.

How fitting.

It's evident this, the chariot area or whatever- it seems the Capitol don't like giving things official names -is decorated according to the theme.

 _May_.

Real flowers lie strung together with lace and reed, making for tight, colourful braided hangings that stretch over all sorts of signs, doors and frames. Patches of daisies, tulips and roses are hunkered together in beds of carefully caressed mulch, lying to the ends of the barn. The barn itself is intricately detailed; a brownish-red with oak wood beams and mahogany appendages. It seems they've made use of birch and spruce wood as well, at least for Seven's station.

It falls into our line sight as Phoebe and I half trot, half trek through the manicured dirt beneath our feet toward the station marked with a '7', where a lone brown horse resides, looking bored. It must be a common tradition to decorate said stands in accordance with what types of flora inhabits a specific District's geographical location; for us, wild grasses compliment flocks of Oregon iris mixed with ferns and dandelions dot against the birch wood forming small walls to enclose the miserable horse in an equally miserable display for Seven, at least compared to the beautiful apple trees that appear to grow naturally in front of Eleven's gold-streaked station.

Apple trees, however, are not my favourite example of nature's beauty at this moment.

Motherfucking Gyorgy and his shitty tree costume.

The pasty material itches against my skin as I walk, not allowing it to breathe and rubbing it red raw.

 _Oh, but your prep team will take care of that, Falcon. Remember, they can fix anything!_

Fucking pink freaks.

I feel a familiar sensation as Phoebe's cold hand grabs my padded shoulder, turning my head. Her lumberjack costume is tight on her- love you, Capitol perverts -but that's not her focus.

In the distance is a gathering, a harmonious gathering, it seems.

Ideas run through my head and I'm given another taste of one of many conversations Phoebe and I had on the train when we desperately wanted to disconnect ourselves from reality.

 _"So? Are we going to lie low or are we going to use what the Capitol has already provided for us?"_

 _"We take what we receive, Falcon. We've always done that."_

 _"But not this time?"_

 _"Correct."_

 _"Well, our work is cut out for us then."_

We were discussing our image after the reaping recaps, and it turned out to be one of the few times Phoebe spoke on her own, an occasion which is usually limited to when she is forced to voice herself or answer a difficult question.

It was a unanimous decision; we would need allies. In Panem, you have a slim chance of survival being a fugitive in the first place, let alone a jailed one going into the Hunger Games. The Capitol had already given us our image, our identity. We just had to use it.

We could scare, we could intimidate, we could act mysterious, but no. That wouldn't keep us alive.

We have to play by the rules.

It's like what Dad used to say.

 _"We can pick the game, son, but we must obey the rules."_

Although, I guess you can never truly pick the game in Panem.

Or at least, one that doesn't kill children.

Phoebe takes me by the hand, yet again ending my thought processes. We calmly pace together, a beaming billboard for Seven, over to the gathering. It's centred around District Three's station which encompasses a metallic shell with woven leaf and branches that lay inlaid. Small waterfalls line a wall and send fresh fluids into the speckled white horse's trough as ferns wave in the muggy air around it.

"Just keep walking," I whisper to Phoebe. "We have to see the whole pack before we can truly decide."

I recognise faces on our approach: the Three tributes- of course -whom I paid little attention to when sitting through the reaping recaps are joined by the Ten pair and, in a rare oddity, the One boy.

The Threes seem to have missed the theme, the girl in a weeping willow-esque coil dress and the boy in a wire suit. The One boy is simple, his hands crossed in front of him, showing off his red satin tuxedo. His waistcoat protrudes from under the jacket and my eye spies intricate roses detailed on the black rayon mesh, some of which also lie prevalent on his glowing satin trousers. The rest of his outfit is a shiny jet black, bar the fresh red rose beside his heart.

The Tens, on the other hand, have a style completely different to any other here. Complimenting more the _fauna_ of springtime than the flora, the girl is dressed, oddly, as a wild cat, golden-brown, while her District partner radiates orange, white and black from his fox suit.

"Are foxes even native to Ten?" the Three boy asks.

"Are bugs even native to Three?" the One boy says in reply. "How _did_ you get that nickname, Bertie?"

"Long story," the Three boy, Bertie, or 'Bug', says as he nods toward our passing by, turning all eyes toward us. We're the clear outsiders in our average, simpleton dress that must be reused every year for Seven.

At the sight of five sets of eyes all trained on me at once, I feel pressure, pressure to act. To play up being something I may very well not be.

Happy.

My instinct is to search for an escape route; I hate feeling intimidated, weak, vulnerable.

 _Vulnerable._

A word I despise, for being vulnerable is what will kill you in this game. The Three boy's eyes flutter downwards and back, pressuring me to make a move. I begin to smile, mouth closed, nodding right back at the group. Phoebe and I keep walking and I presume she does something similar as our fabrications are met with smiles and even a couple of waves returned.

It's a decent start. Hopefully they won't run away.

Being painted as criminals doesn't usually work in your favour, as I've heard so much before.

Of course, we're merely scoping out any alliances that have already formed, looking for anything we can use. My distinct first impression of this lot is 'friendly', an unintelligent impression anyone could get with ease. With that in mind, my brain racks itself for a more curated deduction as Phoebe and I slowly saunter away, our pace slightly slowed from our interactions and our ears still picking up whatever dying embers of vocal tone it can.

"They seem nice."

"Yeah whatever- I'm telling you, foxes are not native to Ten," Bertie pipes up again.

"I've never seen a fox back home," a soft voice radiates, most likely belonging to the Ten girl.

"So they don't exist there! Ha! I told you guys!"

"Actually, I think I've read about red foxes inhabiting Nine and Ten, Bertie."

"Celine, you're cramping my style!"

While it's a pointless conversation coming mostly out of the mouths of nobodies from insignificant Districts, I have to keep in mind that there is a boy with a possible Career attitude and a boy who may well have been hauling bags of produce and slaughtering cows before coming here.

There's always a threat in any place.

You just have to know what to look for.

After we get a safe distance away, I turn, locking eyes with Phoebe instantaneously and sharing a similar thought.

'Not terrible, but maybe we should investigate our options first.'

Sounds good.

We trot around for a bit, all the while acting as if to seem like we're just aimlessly wandering, our intended look. The horrid brown clogs that strive to remain in line with my tree getup collide against the dirt under me a number of times. Of course, they were the special recommendation of my favourite bigot of a stylist, Gyorgy. The constant scuffing aggravates me past the shits, though I don't do anything about it. I refuse to look like a fool and ruin any chance of leverage I can grasp in this game.

 _Hard to do when wearing a costume designed to resemble a tree, Falcon_.

My mind is distracted when I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. I lever to the left, my eyes quickly spying two tributes, their backs faced toward me. I take Phoebe with me as I begin walking a little closer to their station which actually emits light around the room. It's a golden display of très chic lightbulbs all thrown around an ornate gathering of wheat stalks that flow upward and outward, away from the sides of the stand from which they are held by- cypress? Are those holders crafted from cypress wood?

My interest is piqued and I navigate my attention toward the details of the stand that proudly displays a '9' overhead. My knowledge of Seven's industry, which I would like to label as vast, floods to me, overwhelming my hippocampus but at the same time reminding me of many an outré wood type.

It seems District Nine has more tree species than I would have thought, with miniature cypress, butternut, silver birch and even oak making up the background of their stable. I would be inclined to believe whoever set this up did their research and made sure everything featured was actually accurate, however even now the world and its little people continues to amaze me, so I know I can't expect significant things from anyone, let alone little things like such.

I draw my attention back to the people that sit talking inside the delegated confines of the station; one boy and one girl, Nine's tributes, talking in outfits literally sprinkled with grain. I don't recall their names, however I think the boy remembers mine. His eyes only just momentarily switch to hold my gaze, yet I can see he recognises me as the Seven boy among other titles.

The boy shifts in his plastic foldout chair, leaning in to talk to the girl, who faces away from me, even more than before. His eyes flick back to me one more time as if to say 'piss off' in the most passive-aggressive way possible without disrupting the peace.

Goody two-shoes not wanting to get involved with any he doesn't trust? Or, maybe there's something a little _special_ between Nine's tributes this year.

Some things to ponder, seeing as I doubt I'll be getting in with them this week.

Phoebe must've gathered the same intuition, seeing as she pulls me forward slightly, upping our previous speed as we fastwalk away from the scene of the crime. It doesn't take long before we spy the Careers, some of them looking rougher than they did during the crystal clear high definition of the reaping recaps.

The five of them fold around District Two's station, the monstrous Two boy and the smaller yet still muscular Four boy playing a round of punchies to, presumably, pass the time, though I wouldn't count out the possibility of them doing it just to show off their 'gains'. The girls, meanwhile, have seemingly dotted themselves around the boys and sit on stools, talking avidly.

Phoebe and I know the boundaries of our influence.

Careers are no good, to anyone.

We career- ha! -past the literal rocky outcrop that is Two's station, it having been designed to resemble a mountain face with the grass-covered body of the mountain in the background, making a nice entrée for the unfortunate grey horse that continues to be whacked whenever one of the 'men' rear up to take their next punch.

I find Phoebe and I are revolving nonstop around a circular plateau, unanimously debunking my theory of this place being a traditional barn. In our next full rotation, I find two gold-plated elevators to exist at either end of the sphere, though I've long forgotten which we came down in.

Over what feels to be an eternity, which is odd because I was told the Capitol was organised, Phoebe and I trek the barren dirt landscape of the barn we can't escape, silently taking notes on both peers and foes alike.

We were subjected to the pair from Eight soon after our visit to the Careers, who turned out to be a rude shock, considering that usually in their place are mild-mannered factory workers. I found it hard to muster any words or phrases to describe them except for 'in disarray'.

Dressed in a silver loincloth wrapped all the way around and sporting a matching silk _towel_ around his torso, the Eight boy whinged, bitched and moaned about his, quote, 'prick of a cunt of a stylist'. His District partner looked legitimately depressed as she fiddled with her long gown that looked to be made of many-a fabric piled on top of each other, the end product matching the boy and resembling a budding daisy.

My attention, however, was swiftly diverted when a tall, dark boy also in a silk robe, his green, came rushing over to us, introducing himself as Glenn from Eleven and immediately swooning over the again, quote, 'awesome aesthetics and evident creativity' of our outfits.

Aesthetics and creativity?

"I don't know about you, but a tree suit and a lumberjack three-piece doesn't exactly scream the words 'aesthetics' and 'creativity' at me," I said, trying to strike up a conversation as I followed up by introducing myself and my sister.

"Oh, can't you see?" Glenn replied, crouching down and tugging on Phoebe's vest. "This is _pristine_ quality cotton! Doesn't it just feel so good?" he continued, looking up at her for an answer.

"It's hot, isn't it Phoeb?" I spurted nonsensically, receiving quick nods from Phoebe in return. I wasn't liking this interaction and I could tell Phoebe wasn't too fond of our new acquaintance either.

In essence, by answering for Phoebe I only made the situation worse for myself.

"Oh, it shouldn't be- look at you! In that tree suit, aren't _you_ hot, Falcon? It looks a bit snug! Oh, it's really soft thou-" Glenn began, grasping the lining of my suit and marveling at the texture.

"I am quite hot, yeah. Actually, I was going to get a drink, so if you'd excuse us-"

"But wait! I haven't even gotten to the flannel yet! Oh, come on you guys!"

 _Don't say it Falcon._

 _It's not worth losing possible compatriots._

 _Word gets around_.

"Don't fret Glenn, we'll be here after the ride," I hollered as I took Phoebe away, winking and smiling at Glenn with charisma mustered directly from the depths of hell. I truly felt like telling this kid where to stick his flannel and not where we'd be after the 'show', but alas, I couldn't.

Nice guy Falcon, at it again.

I stayed true to my word and proceeded to the table of beverages and snacks laid out by the nearest elevator, pouring myself a glass of water just in case Glenn decided to trail us on his quest to grope clothes, which I presumed was applicable for everyone else in the barn as well.

I vented quietly to Phoebe as she rolled her eyes and mixed up a coffee. "Imagine what the kid'll be like in the arena, trying to inspect every aspect of clothing in the joint; he'll be fondling himself live on the podium!"

Nevertheless, we were soon back on the trail, having dodged the Career camp once more on our way. It seemed a good amount of stylists decided they were privileged to take their sweet sweet time with their tribute pampering, which left the fair few of us who were actually ready extremely bored.

Eventually, we couldn't walk any longer. I pestered an avox for two foldout chairs and we set up shop outside the elevator that most tributes came down in, still eager to gather as much information as we can about our opponents. Our first visitor was Glenn's District partner, who was presented in such a way it was obvious why she took longer to dress than he.

Riddled with flowers all over her body, she was tapered with luscious pink azaleas that flowed freely and beautifully over a silk green dress that matched Glenn's. She also wore a pink flower crown and looked slightly dazed as she stepped out of the elevator, noticing us to our left and promptly waltzing away without a word.

"She's a quiet one, hey?" I muttered to Phoebe, not expecting a response as ever.

The Sixes came next and I celebrated the sight of a twelve-year-old, the boy.

Easy one to clear off the list.

 _Falcon, you cruel son of a bitch_.

I won't be killing him and either way, thought crimes don't exist, unlike in one of the novels we used to read way back when in school. Old, it was, the title bearing the year _1984_ and the author having managed to write it and also die thirty years or so before the events of his story, which never even ended up playing out. At least, not until fifteen years after, but details are hazy on what brought Panem around. The catastrophe of the year nineteen ninety-nine is just an educated guess performed by historians based off of little evidence.

The Six boy wore a striking conductor's outfit, complete with the red button-up shirt, tasseled black jacket trimmed with red, steelcap black boots and fancy gold-tinted cap. It was a strong nod to Six's transport industry, something the boy's District partner couldn't reflect as much being dressed in a shimmering silver dress that ended at her knees.

They too played the plane game with us, taking off after one glance our way. That left us open to the Fives.

"I swear to God Atom! You're the one who got us in this position!"

"I can't help what I was named, Jennay!"

"Oh my God, why make these stupid fucking rings out of metal? How dumb _are_ these stylist twits?"

The girl, Jennay, then called politely for an avox.

"Hey! Shit for brains! Come here and give us a h- Jesus Christ! The door, Atom! The door!"

See, the elevator door opening was quite small. Not any hassle for say, the dresses and the fox suits of the joint, but some wide-ass molecule costumes?

Absolute clusterfuck.

The Fives were eventually freed and it was found they seemed to have been holding up the Twelves, the final pairing to emerge from the dark depths of the elevator and to my warm welcoming chorus.

"Wahey! Finally, Jesus."

"Calm down, shitface," came an unexpected reply. It was a deep voice, and its owner was soon revealed; the monstrous Twelve boy that seems much larger in life than over any television broadcast.

I wasn't scared of him though. It takes a fair deal to scare a Farley.

I wore my usual aloof expression as Lucian exited the lift and thumped past my residence, turning his head to scowl at me as he separated from his District partner who looked entirely over this entire thing, probably thanks to the caveman required to be by her side at all times. I could never feel sorry for her though; her unfavourable predicament distracted me from remembering to read her and take notes, damnit.

Unintended manipulation.

Always assume the worst in a death game.

"All tributes please report to your chariots, for the ride is about to commence."

An unfamiliar voice, though most voices in this place are new and foreign.

I rise, bones aching and begin to walk to the now lined up horse-manned chariots that splay backwards from the main door that blends quite well into the general walling of the barn, masking the outside promenade and the thousands that sit in the crowd, gearing up to draw pleasure from us.

I begin to reflect, throwing the disgusting idea of five thousand vile Capitolites out of my head.

 _A summary would be worthwhile, Falcon_.

Right.

I run through the numbers in my head. The Ones are same-same but different. The girl seems to be sticking true to the glorious Career name, while the boy has taken a completely different turn. I'll be sure to monitor both during training. The Twos aren't as noteworthy, however I shall be on the hunt for any weaknesses that they may display from now until the Bloodbath.

The Threes, especially Bertie, seem to reflect their District in a stereotypical way. Really, the girl would be better to keep an eye on; she may have some hidden talent. Although rare, it can happen. Four isn't too special, just two Career golden children that I'll reluctantly observe. Five, on the other hand, seem to have their tribulations. A hothead and a young un' who may be alliance material.

Phoebe and I reach our steed and I help my sister up and into the open-back chariot, which, in hindsight, doesn't seem like such a good idea, though I still climb in as well and continue with my rundown.

The Sixes seem to be a carbon copy of the Fives, minus the hothead. Possibly simple-minded- I mean, no words were said between them whatsoever, which isn't usually a sign of utter intelligence. There's us, of course, and then the Ei-

"Holy fuck!"

A shriek, whinny and clap from behind me trigger a small sense of shock that I can luckily contain, yet I still turn around and look behind me, following the origin of the sounds in anticipation.

It seems the Eight boy has taken a fall and been stamped in the head by his horse.

 _Serves him right for being a brat at the reapings_.

I step down from my carriage to get a better look as avoxes scramble to administer first aid. It looks like he's unconscious.

District Eight.

Dysfunctional, though take note of the girl. Could possibly have a skill or two.

I find the District Nine pair look petrified but comfort one another with hugs as I turn yet again and climb back into the chariot, sighing at the obvious incompetence that surrounds me. Nine. In love.

What a classic.

No notes needed.

I'd like to say the same for Ten, but with that built kid in there, I can't for safety's sake. The girl doesn't seem like anything worth paying attention to, as does the one in Eleven. Young, quiet, probably useless as well. Glenn I frankly can't be bothered with and I conclude it's unlikely he'll even wield a weapon.

And lastly, Twelve.

Mixed bag.

The girl I couldn't pick anything from so I'll definitely study her but her District partner?

Pff.

You don't need to watch that brute to gather his murderous potential, meaning another one too dangerous to enlist.

God, is _anyone_ worth our time?

* * *

 **Ah, the adventurous adventures of the Farleys, where I detail everyone's favourite jailbirds in their search to gain** **knowledgeable** **knowledge of their confrères in the games.**

 **Will they end up spending their valuable time with other people in an alliance? We'll have to wait and see for now.**

 **As I mentioned at the start of this chapter, I've slacked quite a bit in September already, so I'll definitely aim to get _at least_ one more chapter out this month for you guys. Right now though, tell me your thoughts on Falcon. I hope I've portrayed him clearly enough; I think this type of interaction chapter was fitting for a persona like his, which means the actual ride part of this will roll around next chapter.**

 **I also realise the tribute interaction could be called minimal here, but don't worry 'cause everything will increase in due time, including the amount of killing and death! Fun!**

 **Okay, that's enough from me today, so I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and thank you for reading!**


	13. Lovestruck: Rye

Rye Coccia, 17, District 9:

I hold Avena soundly as the gates draw open, fearing the worst.

The wheat flakes itch every square millimetre of my skin, causing an irritation that would make a monk flip out.

Fortunately, my mind is taken off of my dress as I'm turned blind by force, thanks to the Capitol's overly extravagant light show that shines directly at us tributes, glowing and probably prettying us up for both the cameras and the audience. Avena, my arm resting around her shoulders, buries her face into my side and sighs.

"Come on," I whisper, my mind thinking up punishments that could occur if we don't give the audience a good show. "They've come here to see us, hey?"

Avena lifts her head and ruffles her grain-sprinkled golden dress. I say dress, well, it's made out of bodysuit material. She got put in a similar boat to I, but I don't think she's too hot at all. Whereas, I'm sweltering. Avena notices my left hand fiddling with the sleeves on my beige fur coat. It's a habit I can't help and she's learnt what it entails.

"Nervous?" Avena says, smiling a little.

I smile back while also telling half a lie. "Just hot again."

It's hard not to be nervous in this place.

"Still? Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes, yes, I promise. Look, the Ones are heading off now. I just hope there's a breeze."

For Avena's sake, I smile and put my arm around her once more. For my sake, I cross my fingers and hope for gale force winds. Thess, our mentor, said Flap, my stylist, was a bit wacko and God, he couldn't have been more right. For a good hour Flap tried all different kinds of costumes on me; one resembling a sun, a tartan and sash, even a loaf of bread that was made _way_ too wide for my liking.

He eventually settled for a skintight golden leotard that covers everything from the neck down. While the first layer wasn't so bad, it was encapsulating me in my own sweat, as I would find out later.

Next to be thrown around my shoulders was an insulated fur coat that draped its way to just above my knees, and finally a thin loincloth that ended up looking more like the sash Flap had tried before, one of the sides drooping across my thigh though I couldn't tell if it was intentional or not.

I was given specific instructions that involved not touching my outfit no matter what and not making myself want to go to the toilet, for the leotard only comes off one way. Before I was allowed to leave, already sweating, Flap lay me down and began to sprinkle tiny bits of grain over me, thus beginning a fit of sneezes that didn't stop for another two hours.

They've thankfully since ceased, but these horses better get a move on 'cause right now, I feel like I'm gonna pass out.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Capitol, please welcome your tributes for the seventh Quarter Quell!"

I watch eagerly as the Twos take off after the Ones, then the Threes, the Fours and after a mini-eternity, we finally get going, my eyes fixated on the Eight boy, the one that had the fall, strapped in front of us, unconscious for a moment but jolting awake the next, breathing heavily and looking around, frightened at the movement beneath him and the roaring crowd beside and night sky above him.

Even if he is who he is, it's pretty shocking that he's required to be held in place after he lashed out at the paramedic-like avoxes trying to help him.

I finally stop fiddling and place my left hand on the wooden hold in front of me, gripping it hard. I find Avena has done the same and wears an unnerved expression, so I tighten my right arm and hug her as we emerge into the dazzling boulevard that leads for half a mile, all the way 'till the magnificent mansion that houses the somewhat less magnificent President Saint-Blaise.

Avena gasps in awe as we take in the complete amount of people around us. It always seems so much smaller on television, what with all the aerial shots and the like. But in person?

It's grand.

Swarms of souls from left to right, all dressed immaculately for this outing of theirs. While their fashion sense is... _questionable_ to say the least, the noise they make as a congregation is wild.

The sound of cheering laps across the esplanade and its surrounding streets, more TVs having been set up around the venue for who I presume to be the people that didn't buy their tickets fast enough. The architecture of the Capitol is on full display as we roll past uncanny amounts of people, with all sorts of statues rising high enough into the sky to be seen clearly. Abstract shapes, water-filled spheres, commemorations of presidency and other milestones, it's all here.

"Wow," I think aloud, turning to Avena as soon as I realise I've spoken. "I like what they've done with the place."

Avena giggles and clasps my hand. "Lets give them a good show then."

Avena pulls her hand upwards, taking mine with it. I gather the courage to take my hand away from the grip in front of me and wave at the crowd, which, surprisingly, set a couple of girls off and our chariot is showered with roses and fancy hats alike on approach to the mansion.

I smile genuinely as we come to a stop, but I quickly realise my wish of a wind hasn't been granted. The forward momentum of the chariot let some fresh air flow through my costume, but I'm still boiling.

 _Don't pass out Rye._

 _Think of your family- of Mother, Emmer and Quinoa. You've got to get home to them Rye. If you black out, you'll lose potential sponsors. Avena could lose sponsors too. Then she can't get home._

 _Stay awake Rye._

 _You can't let them join Dad_.

"Can you feel the breeze?" Avena asks, still resting her hand in mine.

"Nah, I think the Capitolites are clogging up the draught."

Avena smiles sweetly as the lighting switches from chariot to mansion. "Take your coat off if you're hot, Rye."

"I was given specific instructions not to, Avena," I reply, grinning as I awfully mimic Avena's tone. We laugh together, both of us doubled over in the chariot.

"Seriously Rye!" Avena exclaims heartily as the chatter dies down around us.

"Okay, but if I get pulled up for not wearing my coat, I'll be blaming you!" My voice fades into a whisper as I joke with Avena, slipping my coat off and placing it over a hook that protrudes from the frame of the chariot.

Avena smiles and lays her head on my shoulder as President Saint-Blaise finally makes her appearance. Her voice is projected loud and clear up and down the avenue that lay before her, Capitolites by the thousands shushing themselves to hear her words.

I know for a fact she isn't liked too much back home in Nine, with the majority of our population being working class; I hear the tirades from the boys at work often. I don't like holding too many opinions, but if what some of my colleagues accuse her of doing is correct, then she's one to be feared for sure.

Miss President looks all done up, with makeup lathered across her every feature and her hair dyed a strong shade of pink, matching her lip gloss. She's dressed in an impeccably unblemished white dress that seems to show hints of pink gradient when positioned under light.

"Welcome! Exemplary people of the Capitol, welcome!"

A round of applause and cheering begins again but is quickly shutdown by the President.

"Welcome also to our tributes and all those watching from their homes, whatever District they may reside in. Welcome.

"As you would know, we are gathered here tonight to celebrate; to celebrate and rejoice at the grandeur that comes with another year of the Hunger Games. In this, the opening ceremony for the seventh Quarter Quell, we welcome our tributes with open arms and rapturously commemorate Panem's favourite tradition, all the while sustaining our joy for the future occasions to come.

"Therefore, as your President, I call you to remember. Remember the foundations on which our nation has been laid. I call you to pay homage. Pay homage to our heritage and celebrate. Celebrate as a people; a people dedicated to preserving and loving their society.

"For we, as Panemians, are the epitome of all culture.

"So, to all of my people, I wish a happy Hunger Games and a Quarter Quell to remember. May the odds be _ever_ in your favour and Panem forever."

A volcano of excitement erupts from all sides once more, the President having captivated her audience with her trademark licks and smiles. She trots away, back into the all-white manor from which she rules. The chariots, having dissipated from the normal line form before the speech, begin to ride back to the bottom of the training centre where we first came from.

Avena doesn't seem too disheartened by the constant fix of Hunger Games that has seemed to radiate around us ever since we were reaped, smiling at me and making light chat on our slower ride back where we are still gawked at. I listen to her, but I think at the same time.

 _How does she keep it up?_

The Hunger Games have threatened even my own optimism which I pride myself on upkeeping, yet Avena is as happy as ever. Of course, I'll never let any type of grief that comes from this game inflict itself on me even if it's the last thing I do, but it's hard not to be impacted by this place, this prospect.

 _That's why you love her, Rye._

 _She's beautiful, intelligent, selfless, positive_ and _steadfast_.

She can't know- not yet. What if she doesn't feel the same way?

One day, Rye.

One day.

I fade back into real life quick enough to find Avena shivering as the humongous stable door blurs into our vision from afar. Without hesitation I grab my coat off of its makeshift hook and wrap it around her, receiving a peck on the cheek in return.

"It didn't show that much, did it?" Avena asks, rubbing her hands together.

"You don't think I could see that you were cold? Gosh, you underestimate my skillfulness, Miss Weitz."

Avena pretends to wear a shocked expression, but she can't hold it and instead laughs sweetly. "Mister Coccia, I'd love to know how 'skillfulness' came to be defined as 'being able to see if some girl is cold' in the world of Rye."

"Hey, do you want to keep that coat or not?" I joke.

She chuckles. "As long as Flap doesn't flip."

I sigh. "Miss Weitz, I'm warning you, keep clear of the puns- I repeat, please _stay away_ from the puns!"

A call from up ahead interrupts Avena as she begins to rebut.

"Jesus! Hey, what the-"

Our eyes cast forward and spot a pileup of sorts; it seems the Seven chariot has careened into the Six, and the Six girl is running off to- the crowd? Her District partner is on the floor, presumably having been thrown off by the collision, but he looks okay.

Cheers, hoots and hollers call out from around us as our horse slows from a canter, stopping behind the, _frustrated_ Eights, to say the least.

"What? Who does this girl think she fucking well is? Don't think of the others, hey bitch? I'm sick of it, Nadine! I'm sick of it! Being gossiped at by animals! I just want to go inside and get out of this fucking _bondage_ but no! No! Not for me, oh-"

"Shut up, Hansel! There's Peacekeepers and... it's fine. It's not the end of the world, okay?"

"Oh! The _Peacekeepers_ Nadine! Yeah, they'll save the day, won't they? Don't you remember our little fiasco w-"

A solid palm to the windpipe from the girl, Nadine, shuts up her District partner, driving him to use all the air he has left in an almighty cussing fit. I turn my direction away from the squabble, caring not for any fiasco that could ever be mentioned. Sometimes other people's business isn't yours.

As the Nadine girl said, Peacekeepers clad in red suits that are probably reserved for special occasions have converged on the Six girl rather hastily, probably thinking she's trying to escape or something. Although, I think she's hunched over on the floor- possibly hurt?

"What is even going on?" Avena asks with a chuckle of disbelief.

"I don't know," I think aloud, getting a small migraine from the sheer chaos of it all and proceeding to roll up my sleeves, again out of nervousness. Migraines usually lead to panic attacks.

Throughout the next couple of minutes, the Six girl darts in, over and under every Peacekeeper in her way, and it soon becomes clear what she's doing. She's not hurt at all; she's nicking items off the floor.

Over the course of the parade, the Capitolites have thrown all sorts of things at us tributes, from the roses Avena and I received to teddy bears for the younger tributes. However, some decided to throw valuable objects, it seems. Lockets, rings, watches- maybe commonplace items here, but back home? Any decent watch could fetch your family a good couple of months worth of food.

The Six girl seems to think she can just snatch these things up, so she does.

Leaping through and around the manic army of Peacekeepers that trails her, the girl bends down every so often, scraping anything she can find into her hand. Surprisingly, the crowd love it. They cheer and make noise while we sit in boredom and confusion, a fact that yet again portrays the divide between Capitolite and District person.

Eventually the girl makes her way back to her chariot without the aid of the Peacekeeper force that look outdone by her sheer speed and elusiveness. The girl begins chattering to her District partner, hugging him and showing him the stuff she picked up.

Odd.

Nevertheless, we're soon back on the road again as a convoy, the crowd looking satisfied with the unscripted madness they just witnessed. I feel we arrive back inside a little quicker than scheduled; maybe the incident back up the road wasn't relished by the higher-ups of this city.

The first thing I do when the chariot stops is jump off, almost forgetting to help Avena down. I turn around, offering her my hand and letting her gently down to the ground. Our carriage is a fair few feet above ground and, along with being decked out with flowers and wheat stalks, it's fashioned in an olden style, making it clunky when in motion and without steps.

Avena thanks me and as I open my mouth to ask where we should go, there's a tap on my shoulder.

"Oh! You two looked just _fantabulous_! Do you know that?"

Regina.

"You're gonna make us stars! Oh, yourselves too, but us more importantly!"

Flap.

Our stylists.

We're separated without any time for talk and whisked away to our respective chambers to be, as Flap put it, "de-beautified". Walls of white began to unceremoniously appear as Flap took me back above ground in a glass elevator that also sported golden finishes on everything that wasn't glazed.

"Ugh, Rye! Stand up straight! Gosh, how can you do such a thing to yourself? Having bad posture is _not_ a good look for a boy like you!"

For the first time that evening, anger overcame me. I had begun to sweat uncontrollably again, feeling as if I was baking in an oven, and along with being pestered by the greatest example of a man who has zero respect for anyone but himself, my legs were aching from standing for so long, making me want to collapse.

 _Maybe talk to me when you've worked in fields for such portions of your life that_ your _back is crippled into a curve! Maybe_ then _you'll know what it's like and that fixing it is easier said than done!_

Fortunately, I can't bring myself to cause an outburst, and before I could have even considered changing my philosophies, the elevator doors opened and a cool rush of air found its way to my body. My mind regathered itself as Flap's prep team worked away on me, "rebuilding me to beauty base zero", as they said.

"Don't worry, hun!" Crash, the kindest of the bunch, said. "Together, we three share as mind as smart as a wizard's! We remember exactly how each part-a' ya is and how to get it back there once we 'done all this makeup on ya!"

I remember Crash telling me she specifically asked for Nine because she's fascinated by 'cowboy culture', whatever that is. Maybe her kindness is as a result of getting her wish.

Even so, if she thinks 'cowboys' are native to Nine, then she's mistaken. Sounded like some monstrous abomination between man and cow to me, but I didn't feel like asking to find out.

After a while, Flap decided to return briefly and simply gave me a white polo shirt and khaki shorts to put on, which I did. Without any guide on how to leave or where to go, I wandered around the blinding white room for a bit, searching for the door that just had to blend in with its surroundings.

Eventually, I did find my way out of the unfamiliar catacombs and back to the elevator, which I soon found was occupied.

"Oh, look! It's pretty boy!"

"Where's ya wag, pretty boy?"

"Not bein' unfaithful, I hope, eh pretty boy?"

A blonde girl and the pair from Two, with the Four pair behind them.

I used to get smack from some of the boys at work back home, but over time everyone developed a sense of mutualism, in that we realised we were all working to feed our families and mischief thus wasn't appropriate.

Here, however, I don't think that'll be the case, and especially not with the Career pack.

"He isn't from Six, is he?" The blonde girl asks, still all done up in her red dress lined with rose petals of the same hue.

A deep voice answers her question. "Nah, old mate's from Nine. That's correct, isn't it pretty boy?"

I look upwards- just a little upwards, but still upwards -toward the ginormous _thing_ I recognise as the Two boy from the little of the reaping recaps I could stomach. In answer to his question, I press the '9' button on the control panel to my left, but hesitate on fully entering the lift.

"Well, ya better hurry up and jump in grain boy, door'll shut on ya soon."

As much as I want to let the Careers go, I know they won't let me do the same. Plus, Avena might get worried if I take too long. I take a step forward and into the crowded gold elevator, taking a good look at my new companions.

I recognise four of them; the pairs from Two and Four, though the other girl in the rose dress I can't name or place. Said girl watches me as I slowly turn back to the closing door, her foot tapping against the carpeted metal below us, making a hollow knocking sound that echoes.

The door turns out to be a reflective surface and I watch with caution through the gold metal as the Two boy towers over me, smirking. The others don't seem as appeased, everyone wearing a blank expression but watching me eagerly nonetheless.

"Get him, Cee."

I look away for a second, searching for who just put me on edge with their words, when I'm pushed into the control panel by two big, meaty hands.

"Fuckin' midget, look what ya done!"

Orange lights encapsulate golden buttons in front of me; twelve golden buttons, to be exact. Laughter echoes from behind me and I begin to sigh and push myself back to a standing position, but am nestled by the Two boy, who whispers into my ear ominously as I try to wriggle out of his control.

"Looks like we got more time with ya now, pretty boy."

I writhe around, pushing the boy backward and into his laughing District partner, just as the door for District One opens and the blonde girl pushes me into the domino pile with the other two as she exits, forcing the Two boy over and onto his District partner, who responds with a shriek.

The Fours rush to help up their allies as the elevator shifts upwards once more with the doors closed again. The Two boy growls at me, lunging for me as he uses the Four girl as a momentary cane and pushes forward off her head.

"You want to _fuck_ with me, pretty boy?"

I dart downwards, using my height to my advantage and forcing the mongrel into the metal frame of the lift, much to the delight of the Four girl. I roll to my right and pull myself up using one of the boy's metal cuffs as a makeshift handle, tugging on the shoulder plates of the boy's Roman general get-up and forcing him backwards again, the Four boy jumping out of the way with a frightened look on his face.

An observation that would prove to be costly.

My throat is grabbed by the stumbling Two boy and he pulls me down with him. We cause an almighty thud as we impact the ground, shaking the very foundations of the lift. I try and push myself upwards as the chime of a bell enters my ears, signifying our arrival at the next level.

I feel relief, though it's short-lived.

My hair is yanked backward by an unknown perpetrator and I let out a surprised yell.

"Fuck off him, pretty boy!"

Twisty brown hair floods my face but quickly disappears as throaty shouting fills the air and white figures appear in the reflection of the glass. I'm pulled away- again, by the throat -with the Fours as the other passengers are restrained by Peacekeepers that flood the lift.

The last thought I have before I fall unconscious without any air continuously circles around my mind.

 _I can only trust one_.

* * *

 **It took a while to get through this one.**

 **I feel really off the books about this- nothing against Rye, of course, but it seems to be a recurring theme. I don't know, maybe I've drained my self-esteem somehow, but I feel as if I'm getting some of these characters wrong.**

 **Frankly, I just can't wait for the games and an opportunity to have a full-on proper topic to write around for each chapter, for example a death that shakes an alliance or something. For me, specific parts of the games prep can go a lot of ways, and I think I need a steadfast pyramid to revolve around.**

 **Hey, here's a challenge: find my reference to a Nirvana song and I'll feature you as a winner next chapter! Here's a hint: it's in italics, but not that one long-ass sentence, don't worry.**

 **Okay, well, this getting kinda long. Thank you for reading!**


	14. The New World: Florina

**Welp, nobody's found the Nirvana reference yet, but the challenge is still open!**

 **Anyway, here's Florina Everett of District Six and a (hopefully) bouncy, swear-free chapter for you all!**

* * *

Florina Everett, 15, District 6:

"Come on! Quick!"

I lead my little District partner, Ty, through the winding hallways that sprawl around outside our rooms. It's close to midnight and it seems the Peacekeepers on duty have all knocked off or are only manning important exits and entryways.

Perfect.

"Florina, where exactly are we going?" Ty says in a hushed whisper.

"Shh!" I smile at the bubbly young boy beside me, whom I've come to adore after just a day of knowing him. "We're going treasure hunting!"

Ty's huge brown eyes meet my own as he grins in the dim light, only to be replaced with a quizzical look after a second.

"Couldn't we have done this earlier?"

"No way! Do you really think Candy would let us waltz around unsupervised? The word fun does not exist in that woman's world."

"Fair point, I guess."

Ty's lip is upturned as we arrive at the entrance to the lift. My mind jumps about as it makes too many decisions at once; I haven't planned this at all!

"Hey, think fast! Pick a number from one to twelve- go!" I exclaim louder than I should at this time of night.

Ty stares at me, a priceless look on his chubby little face. "Um, uh-"

"Hurry!"

"I don't know, Florina!"

"What's your favourite number then?"

"Thirteen!"

"It just _had_ to be thirteen, didn't it?" I crack a smile. "One to _twelve_ Ty!"

"If this is about what floor we're going to, don't you think we should find a map first? We just got here, you know."

I jump and my teeth grit as the elevator bell shocks me, and I internally damn it for being so loud.

"Well, do you know where a map is?" I ask my District partner as we take hurried steps into the golden carriage before us.

"Why would I know?" Ty replies, shrugging and darting nervously toward the control panel to his right. "What happens if we don't press a button quick enough, Florina? We could be trapped in here forever!"

Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. I've already gotten a few goodies from what those swooning Capitol people threw at everyone during the parade; do I even need to be hunting with Ty?

During the parade earlier today, strewn around the grandiose promenade we rode upon were necklaces, pendants, rings and more, as well as less valuable items such as stuffed animals, flowers and hats that served as good carry baskets for the real jewellery. They were all graciously tossed by the crowd, and, as a treasure hunter, I couldn't just _not_ take up their kind, kind offering. I darted off the chariot, accidentally throwing Ty off balance, and began to snatch it all, making some light work out of the Peacekeepers while I was at it.

I could just imagine Brock, my closest friend and fellow treasure hunter, cheering me on from back home. I don't think any tribute had ever done such a thing before, but hey! There ain't no ruling against it, is there? If the Capitolites wanna throw their valuables at me, then they _obviously_ want me to have them.

Either way, I helped the parade clean-up process.

Still with me now is my most prized pickup, a lovely thin peridot-encrusted bracelet which fits perfectly around my wrist and does so as I quickly reach out and press the 'G' button on the elevator control panel, hoping that somewhere on the ground floor of the training centre Ty and I can find some directional aid.

"What are you doing? The ground floor'll be crawling with Peacekeepers, Florina!"

Oops.

I change my mind and smack a mysterious-looking 'S' button that lies by the bottom of the panel. "If we get caught, I'm blaming your love for the number thirteen."

"Me? You pushed the button! What does 'S' stand for, anyway?" Ty gasps, his voice rising.

"Shh!" I repeat with a wry smile. "You don't _want_ to get caught, do you? Being a treasure hunter is all about taking risks, Ty, and what is the riskiest risk you can take in an elevator?"

"Breaking the glass and going bungee jumping without a rope?"

I laugh for a moment, before comedically snapping back to fake seriousness. "No, it's going to an unknown floor, of course!"

Ty rolls his eyes which quickly become the only thing I'm able to see in the pure darkness that is quickly inflicted upon us when the lift starts falling down to the 'S' level, a place neither of us have actually been before, but one that seems to be closer to the District Six quarters than the ground floor itself.

Oh well, I'm right anyway. I know more than most that being a treasure hunter does indeed involve taking a fair amount of risks. Wherever my memories are stored in my brain- the limbic system, or whatever -the place has an overload as the chaos of reaping day and prior events flood back into my thoughts.

I spent the night before reaping day in an angsty mood, having had yet another discussion with my parents about sneaking out to explore. We had recently moved to a more forested part of Six, by the border with Twelve, I think, and I was eager to check out my surroundings. With my parents being renowned adventurers Ross and Fiora Everett, you'd think they'd approve of my expeditions, themselves having been doing the same thing for a job only a short time before, but no.

No, they didn't want their daughter following in their footsteps. My guess is because adventuring didn't pay well, but they never got the chance to tell me _exactly_ why they tried to discourage me from what's in my blood. They never could discourage me, though; I snuck out yet again that night, not caring for the "big day ahead of me", but for the wonders of exploration.

Brock was still out of action then and I'd presume he still is now, having protected me from those darn no-life bullies that, at first, seemed to plague my new school. I was lucky to meet Brock on my first day through a couple acquaintances and we soon started adventuring together, looking for any sign of old treasure.

He couldn't make it out that night, still being injured from our confrontation with morons. It saddened my favourite gentle giant, but I promised him I'd split whatever I found with him no matter what I found or when I found it, and proceeded to care for him for most of the day before going home and heading out late.

Little did I know that I would actually find something that night.

A black bear, that is.

It spotted me straight away, and it's safe to say I turned white at the sight of it, which is actually quite ironic, considering the species. I must've ran for thirty damn miles before I had the good sense to scramble up a sturdy sycamore on the outskirts of the wood, hoping to get out of reach of the animal.

It roared and growled for over an hour before it finally lost interest, granting my heart permission to beat normally again. I spent the night in the sycamore, praising my good sense to bring sleeping provisions along with a pouch of grapes and my trusty shovel.

We don't talk about my parents and their reaction to finding their daughter's bed empty in the early morning light on reaping day, but what we do talk about is risks and how they are imperative in the life of an adventurer; something Ty should understand and embrace if he is to be a true crusader.

With a slight ping, the elevator graciously slows to the mysterious 'S' level of the training centre. Any farther below and you'd need a pass, unless you were already down there trying to get back up. As far as I know the only thing down there is the stables where the chariots and horses are kept, but hey-

Who knows how many secrets this place holds?

It could be filled to the brim with hidden buttons, walls, archways, coves and passages- hell, there could be secret treasure somewhere in this place; I mean, it's a possibility, these people are immensely rich after all, what's to say some architect didn't thrown in jewel-encrusted stone somewhere around here?

My eyes flit toward the opening door, spying out into the marketplace of desks, hallways and doors that lay in front of me.

"This must be the tourist section or something, hey?" I say, paging Ty out of the elevator.

"Sure looks like- argh, Florina!"

I shush Ty and grab the young boy's shoulders, taking him toward the wall on his right that sports neatly arranged photos of the Capitol, paired with commemorative Hunger Games memorabilia including portraits of victors, gamemakers and, above all- literally, above every other item -an intricate and beautiful portrait of the President at the time of the games listed.

I must remember to ponder the prices of these things later.

I turn to the wriggling little body mass of Tydarius Petrit. "You weren't being quiet! Shut up!"

"It's not a library, Florina!"

"It _will_ become a library if we're turned into avoxes, never to speak again! I thought you didn't want to get caught, huh?"

"If we are caught it'll most likely be due to the fact that you're currently talking louder than I probably ever have."

Whoops. Didn't realise.

"Shut up, boy!" I say with a smile I can't hide, throwing my arm around Ty and leading him to the divide in paths that lay ahead.

"Look at this place," I whisper, peeking around the corner and in great awe at the sheer magnitude of grandeur around me- stuff any hungry treasure hunter would drool over; paintings probably worth millions, gold-inlaid picture frames, hell, even jewel-encrusted necklaces and other accessories placed around figurehead statues depicting important individuals which I dare not try and take until I'm completely, fully and entirely sure of the security in this joint.

"Didn't Candy say there wasn't anything you'd be interested in here?" Ty recounts, flashing me back to when I consulted my escort out of curiosity of just what the training centre truly held.

"Well, she lied," I say solemnly, feeling a little hurt by the prospect of being deceived by someone I'm told to trust. "That or even she doesn't know about here. Think this is some sort of museum?"

"I thought you said it was a library."

I whip around and register the cheeky smirk on Ty's face and smile yet again.

"Seriously, Ty. What even is this place?"

"Some sick museum, yeah, I guess. I don't like it, Florina."

"Then that makes two of us," I reply, observing the velvet-covered walls around me in a shade of annoyance and skepticism.

 _Surely people don't pay to see this?_

You could call me reckless or ignorant, but I tend to focus on the better things in life rather than the trashy. Even if it clouds my self-image sometimes, I feel turning a blind eye to stuff like this has helped me keep so upbeat and, if I dare say, happy, even if I'm not exactly in the loop with the Capitol and society itself.

Treasure hunting is an escape, a love, a wonder; more than a hobby. It's not a pastime; it's something that will take you over and control you if you don't resist.

I think it's better not to resist.

"Come on," I say, jolting toward Ty with a fresh burst of excitement and optimism at the possibilities of just what this place could hold.

"What are we gonna do?"

"You're gonna follow me, and we're gonna have some fun."

For a longish time, the length of which I don't keep track of, Ty and I explore our surroundings. As we finally escape the museum section, as I named it- the sector with all the memorabilia -we're rewarded with a myriad of rooms, hallways and passages.

First, we enter yet another memorabilia room, though this one completely decked out with what seems to be extremely shiny training centre weapons, gleaming in the dim, outside light, until the truth dawns on me.

These are games weapons, just cleaned.

My impulse is to vomit- I didn't come here for this!

I take Ty away and out of the now claustrophobic space, opting to continue down the dimly-lit corridor and to whatever remains beyond, which turns out to be an almost fully white room all lit-up and chock-full of televisions and chairs arranged in circular patterns.

It's confusing at first, but as I move around and Ty mucks around with the TVs, we soon figure out what this room is meant to symbolise.

"Argh!" I hear Ty shout, and instinctively bring my index finger to lips, preparing for a good shushing, before my mind flips with panic at the call.

"What's wrong?" I shout myself, wholeheartedly concerned for Ty. Thankfully- I guess -instead of Ty in danger, I find a huge turquoise beast dangling in front of him, as if on a thread.

It has massive jaws, four limbs, humongous, sharp, canine-like teeth and an ugly, hateful expression. My first guess is lion, one of the now-extinct animals we learnt about way back when in school, but the thing in front of me doesn't match the description Mrs. Gavell gave so long ago.

No mane of luscious locks, no broad, open face, no gold anywhere on the body, just cyan features and a-

"Oh, you did that on purpose, didn't you? Just to scare me, huh?" I say, snickering at Ty's cheekiness. It's a hologram of some ancient animal, emitting from the TV in front of the little boy.

"I... think... I think I pressed the wrong button."

"Button?" I say, heading over to Ty and finding a control panel in front of my partner in crime, providing me with a purpose for this room.

"Oh, this is a gamemaker control room," I say, disappointed at the seemingly random room we had found turning out to be just another piece of the games.

We play around with some controls for a while, conjuring up all sorts of monsters, some of which, Ty tells me, share striking resemblances to the comic book beasts he enjoys reading about.

Touché, gamemakers.

We exit and, after a fair bit of yawning and a decent amount of walking, we stumble into an old library, filled with a ton of mostly untitled books, somewhat neatly arranged. I flip through many-a page and find, as I expected, most of the books are about the Hunger Games in some way, shape or form, including games recounts, autobiographies of victors and gamemakers, and, of course, mutt diagrams and sketches with helpful labels for the enthusiastic Capitolite bookworm.

We migrate around the room, taking turns to arrive at the rear of the library and seemingly where a cleanup on aisle six is well-needed.

"Florina, you seen any interesting stuff? Y'know, maybe like, superhero books or something?"

"Afraid not," I reply to Ty in a hushed manner, before continuing rummaging through the unkempt piles of hardcovers by the back of the library, reading aloud any titles I can find. " _Romeo and Juliet_ , yeah yeah yeah. _Panem's Most Influential_ , whatever- wait, _The History and Cartography of North America_? Hold on, this thing's _really_ old- and thick."

 _I wonder if it's worth something?_

Well, it's no good lying here in this dust shack.

"What'd you find?" Ty yells from across the way, earning himself a loud shush yet again. "Sorry- what'd you find?" Ty repeats, this time in a whisper as he trots over to me.

"Well," I begin, making my way to the corner beside me and dusting off some old lounge chair that looks like it's sat dormant for a good thousand years. "Why don't you take a look for yourself?"

I turn, showing Ty the title of the crimson-coloured hardbound in all it's glory.

"North America? What's that?"

"Sit on down my boy, and we shall find out!"

I fiddle excitedly with my frankly oversized glasses as I sit with Ty on the sofa that doesn't seem as wide as it actually is. I grip the book tight in my hands and say a quick prayer to the gods of adventure- bless them -asking that there's something of interest behind this title and that I don't look dumb in front of my little counterpart.

I pull back the cover and find myself staring at a blank page.

It takes a moment to click, but Ty's got my back.

"Blank page, keep going!"

Right.

 _Silly bookmakers, always putting blank pages in their books_.

I find my heart pounding as I scrape my pointer finger back towards me from the top-right of the blank page, unimaginably eager to see whatever lies on the following page.

What if I've got some secret intel about the future? I mean, I've never heard of a North America- can the Capitol predict the future?

Or what if it's just a work of fiction? Oh, please, Ty will be so disappointed...

I don't dwell on the thought as my anticipation gets the better of me and I turn the page with as much force as I dare, a wide smile plastered on my face.

"A map?"

I turn to Ty, his mouth still open after relaying aloud what befalls our vision. It is indeed a map, a meticulous one on first inspection.

"What is this?" I say uncontrollably, a million conflicting thoughts racing through my head, all at the same time.

"What does that say?" Ty asks, running his finger over a section of the map.

"United States of... America?"

"What's that?"

"I honestly don't know." My voice peters out as I flip the next page, not knowing whether to feel disheartened or satisfied with my findings, even if they are findings that I still don't understand.

"The Mayflower landed at Cape Cod, later Cape Cod Massachusetts, on the ninth of November... sixteen-twenty?"

Ty continues on from where I left off on the first annotation that lay beside the greying map. "While it is widely believed that one Spanish-Italian explorer Christopher Columbus, born Cristoforo Colombo, discovered North America in the year fourteen ninety-two, it has been proven a number of times the land was inhabited by native peoples from at least thirty thousand years ago at the time of writing- January twenty-third, nineteen ninety-nine...?"

I open my mouth to speak, but am rudely cut off by a voice I know not to be Ty's.

"Hey! Who goes there?"

Nah, too deep.

I grab Ty's arm and drag the boy behind a shelve of books, ducking into an aisle. I look back and see _The History and Cartography of North America_ tucked tightly under his arm, which I'm thankful for.

My brain tries to work out my situation.

There's no time to duck out and go pillage the memorabilia caverns, oh no, this is a run or sneak situation. I've got Ty here too; I've got to be responsible, okay.

I place a finger over my lips and lead him with my pull through the dim light, though trying ever so hard to stick in the shadows.

"Show yourself!"

It has to be some Peacekeeper. They have a deep, grainy voice that shakes the books from their shelves and my bones from their joints also. This is not a desirable situation for an explorer.

I'm tempted to snatch _The History and Cartography of North America_ right from under the crevice of Ty's arm and just throw it on the floor. Who knows what the Capitol considers stealing? It's just some old book filled with fantasy gibberish but... I can't help thinking that there's something more to it, something secretive.

Something useful.

No, I just can't. My adventurer's instinct refuses to let me just throw away what very well could be the biggest find of my career.

As we draw near a fresh reincarnation of dim light that marks the entrance, or in this case, the exit of the library, I take a final look behind me, still tugging Ty along. I'm glad he's such a faithful counterpart; I'm sure he's pretty dang scared right now, yet he hasn't made but a sound.

I turn my attention away from Ty and search the clusters of darkness further behind for any signs of movement. The library is pretty dense; I'd think it could rival a normal-sized house back home.

Without a second thought, I look at Ty, grabbing his attention, before nodding my head in the direction of the corridor we came from. I mouth the word 'run' and, almost instantaneously, he preps himself to sprint.

I adjust my stance, hold up three fingers by my side and, quicker than I even expected, throw them all down and start booking it up the hallway from which we first came, caring not for any valuables but only for myself and my District partner.

"Hey!"

The voice pipes up again, but I pay it no attention as I round the corner to my left, almost running square into a headcast of Greer Tiernan, one of the oldest victors still alive today. I keep going though, eager more than anything to get out of this place, wherever it is, in one piece.

I see the elevator in the near distance; our ticket to freedom.

Yes, our.

Our.

I look behind me to see if Ty's been able to keep up with his little legs and have a mini-stroke when I see no little boy trailing me.

I slow to a stop, jaw gaping.

"Ty?" I say halfheartedly, staring into the near-darkness behind me, hoping for a figure to appear.

"Florina!"

Around the corner bolts a little boy holding a book like there's no tomorrow, his legs carrying him as fast as they possibly can, away from a monstrous figure that wields a baton and chases after him.

I snap into action.

I begin to run again, toward the elevator, hoping that there truly is no person in this place that would need it at this time of night. My prayers are rewarded with an instant door-open as soon as my finger meets the button on the wall.

I dart a look behind me as I step into the carriage. Ty has a healthy lead on the Peacekeeper, and if distance equals rate times time-

I smack my hand against the close button continuously, feeling pain in my palm as the doors inch closer to one another.

Ty jumps in, nearly snagging the book in the crevice of the doors, but making it in nonetheless.

"Close, damn it!" Ty yells, breathing as heavily as the bear did so long ago.

"Language!" I smile and say as the image of a heavily-clad Peacekeeper jumping head-first into closing elevator doors presents itself in front of my eyes.

We made it.

* * *

 **Well, it's time for a meme- if you know, you know.**

 **Is this subplot?**

 **That's the question for this chapter; is this subplot? What will Ty and Florina do with their newfound information and book?**

 **Please share your thoughts in a review below, I would love to hear some opinions, ideas and maybe even some predictions from you all!**

 **Now, I apologise for my absence over the course of the month. I trust some of you guys saw my profile and could understand my situation. I'm going to push myself to update at a respectable time for next chapter and at least try to stick to my schedule, which seems to have gone out the window, but life gets busy, y'know?**

 **I mean, I included another song reference in this chapter; a Pixies song, this time. I don't know if anybody tries to find these, but it's followed by a hyphen and it's a phrase.**

 **Okay,** **I won't keep you lovely people any longer than I have to, thank you for reading!**


	15. Looking Ahead: Lark

**My apologies yet again for the time it took to get this thing out. Really no excuse here; I guess my productivity rate has dropped through the floor, as much as it sucks. I'll still be trying to get another chapter out before December begins, for reasons that will be outlined at the end of this chapter.**

 **For now, though, enjoy Larkspur Rowyn everyone!**

* * *

Larkspur Rowyn, 13, District 11:

I hum the tune to the well-known tune that's sung by the workers of Eleven on a regular basis, a song that's lived on through generations and has seen the downfall of humanity time and time again.

Yet its meaning still rings true to this day.

 _I've been down south where they use the slide machine  
Where the gods of old are heard but seldom seen  
And here I've been just stuck up in between  
Yeah, trying, trying, trying to get back to you_

It's a slow tune, a morbid one.

One that details the harsh reality of awaiting execution.

The first line, where the mystical 'slide machine' is mentioned, gives the listener a picture; the deep south, as it's still known today, or current District Eleven; one of few places where capital punishment still subsists. The third line then informs the listener that the narrator is in dire straits and awaiting his own execution, which is furthered in the fourth line where the reader learns the song is addressing a loved one of the prisoner.

The second line, however, is the one that resonates most with the poor, hungry and beaten workers of Eleven.

"Where the gods of old are heard but seldom seen," I whisper, bringing myself back to the present moment for just a second.

It's a recollection, a call, for change. The 'gods of old' are sweeter times, when the narrator was happy and not in danger, and the narrator tells us that those times are now gone, and in a way it is a warning; a warning to others not to be like him, a warning that the past is the past, and a warning that the free world is in danger.

Was.

No, the free world doesn't exist anymore, whatever it was like.

I have very few people in my life whom I can trust. That's not freedom.

I'm constantly ignored, to the point where I received no visitors after my reaping, despite having a medium-sized family. That's not freedom.

I see violence everyday and at a constant rate; public whippings, beatings- public _executions_.

That's not freedom.

"Larkspur, is it? Please refrain from whatever it is you're humming- I'm trying to teach you kids how to keep yourselves alive here."

Kyanite Alkley, the training instructor and all-around community manager here at the training centre, interrupts my train of thought. I feel a weight lift off my shoulders as my negative thoughts dissipate, clearing quickly, and I bring my attention back to the striking young man's lecture.

"As I was saying, don't think weaponry is the most valuable asset in the arena. While a nice, sharp sword _will_ serve you valiantly if used correctly, overlooking stops such as the edible plants and the camouflage stations could set you down a bad path.

"So, if there's one thing you should take away from this presentation, it's not to forget about the more inconspicuous destinations that lie in front of you today. The trainers here aren't allowed to bet or anything of the like, and thus are unable to instruct you on where to go or what exactly is the best stop for you. No, it's all up to the mind of the tribute, so if I were you, I'd roam with care and decisiveness. Thank you, you're free to begin."

Kyanite turns and begins to walk away, his crimson-red robe waving slightly in the breeze of forward motion. Some tributes around me rise, but halt, along with Kyanite, at the words of a girl.

"But you're not us, are you?"

Kyanite turns, his red-highlighted black curls swaying ever so slightly as he faces the girl, the one from Five, who still sits with her District partner.

"No, no I'm not. I'd think that's quite obvious, Ms. Rhee."

Kyanite speaks so softly I almost struggle to hear him. He possesses an edge of mystery and even hastiness, but nevertheless acts as the definition of calm, as if he's free only behind closed doors, and not in front of children he knows will all die in the next couple weeks.

Oh no, no more negativity, no.

I tune out of their short but sweet conversation as I get up and move around, trying to distract myself from the harsh reality of the Hunger Games.

I've already seen two alliances form during the chariot rides yesterday, those two being the Careers, of course, but also a rival alliance, it seems. One almost spearheaded by the One boy, in an interesting turn of events. I contemplated joining them last night, that alliance. They seem pretty friendly, the four or five people I know are actually in there, but, as I lay on my overly-extravagant bed in a room so big it could easily house my entire general area comfortably, I realised I couldn't.

Even if Glenn, my happy-go-lucky District partner, was to join them and drag me in, I'd refuse. I don't think they'd take too kindly to a girl who refuses to pick up a weapon.

My entire life, I've been surrounded by violence. Violence in the fields- where both my parents work -where higher-ups beat their exhausted workers, "encouraging" higher production rates, all in an effort to keep their own superiors from knocking them down a rung.

Kit, my older brother, always picking a fight, thinking he can prove himself through violence. He comes home from school black and blue and pays me no attention whatsoever, thinking I can handle myself with our parents always knackered from work yet still putting minimal food on the table, which forces me to apply for tesserae, which I bet just about did me in this year, with the May thing and all.

His attitude makes me sick, but I don't bother it, for fear of him turning on me.

No, for the past I've had, I won't be picking up a weapon.

Or, at least, I'll try not to.

Even if "home" is a disgraced society, I still want to make it back. Larringer, my mentor, is striving to get me home and with Glenn's mentor, Brit, aging like a fine wine and slowly drinking himself to death, I can understand her plight, but it's against my morals to kill, or inflict any type of harm upon another.

 _So then, how are you going to handle yourself today, Lark?_

Well, survival skills seems like the obvious choice. The briefing we were given earlier, where each trainer big-upped themselves and their specialty, was actually pretty helpful, and I'm eager to learn from the specialist, Mannix, even if it's to just keep my mind off of, well, everything around me.

I seem to be the only one with the intention of learning how to keep myself afloat, as the station clearly marked 'SURVIVAL' beams at me, empty of any and all students. It seems the majority of my peers have opted to head straight for the weapons; the Career pack, an angry-looking blonde girl and the Eight boy who had to be restrained at the chariot ride and a good portion of Glenn's alliance all reside beside some sort of weaponised station far across the room.

I jump when I turn my gaze back and find a wide-eyed young man staring down at me, smiling broadly.

"How ya goin', Larkspur? You're my first customer o' the day!"

I smile weakly at the thought.

 _Only because everyone else is off learning weapons and preparing to_ kill _each other_.

My mind flashes back to the reaping, where I remember feeling absolutely terrified though I forced myself to stand my ground in the name of dignity- though the question begs; how will I fare when I'm hoisted into the arena?

I shake the notion, the horror of fright and death, from my head, instead turning away from the beaming young man and looking at what lay before me.

All arranged and packed into one singular station lay everything you could possibly think of to do with the sustaining of life. From a game to test edible plant knowledge, to a multitude of fire-starting materials readily available, to a fully-interactive and live terrain simulator with all sorts of bush tucker and natural materials ranging from simple tree vines to lily pads to burning forest, all ready to study, interact and practice with, whatever means that may be by.

I'm slightly in awe at the sheer magnitude of the options on offer here, and I spend a moment taking everything in as Mannix chatters.

"...just muck around with a couple o' these buttons here and you've got _everything_ you could ever need! Look- snow! You ever seen snow? Where ya from? Eleven, right? I wouldn't think you'd get much snow over there, eh?"

"No, not at all," I whisper hesitantly, really just wanting to get down to business, though my mind sags a little as I recall having never seen the beauty of snow before.

I take steps toward the simulator, eager to knock down some first impressions of how I can deal with whatever Mannix and the 'randomise' button decide to throw at me. It's a good starting point in my eyes; acting as a preliminary test, it'll lay the foundations for my work over the next couple of days and, eventually, the private sessions.

The glass door seems somewhat intimidating as I enter the encapsulating domain, which is currently set only to dense woodland, a different setting, it seems, from when I was outside of its grasp, it having been cycling through an array of biomes just earlier.

"Just shut the door behind you and activate her with that fingerprint pad, Larkspur- yeah, that's the way. Right, I'll fire her up! She'll be ready to roar in no time at all!

I follow Mannix's instructions and stand at ease as the machine comes to life behind my back. I turn and watch as trees transform into pitiful shadows, sprawling and crying as they vanish into the glass interim that keeps them captive. The floor beneath me, drenched in pine needles, washes away with the sheer ferocity of a dying asp, caring not for convenience as it soaks itself into the shifting plates that act as the true barrier between my feet and whatever lay beneath them. The artificial sky, a shadow of its former self, sparks with pink, dotting the hue around the ceiling without thought.

The transformation of an atmosphere.

The transformation of a world.

For good.

The sky, formerly an ocean-like blue that tried its very best to scrape itself through the leaves of the very treeline that sheltered it from the below ground, all gone, disappeared in an instant. Now, a pink sky reforms and takes its place, completely filling the ceiling with its warm tint. I hesitate as I anxiously wait a half-millisecond for the ground to appear again.

Round, grey rocks, bound together in weaved unison, dot the coastline as half of the simulator fills with stone and the other half- thankfully not my half -fills with water of an azur shade that shimmers in the late afternoon make-believe sun.

It's very much something I would imagine to be a common sight in a place like Four, or maybe an arena that somehow pays tribute to the sea or Four itself in some way. It's beautiful; far more beautiful than what I've seen my entire life in Eleven.

I damn near shriek as one of the large yet smooth rocks gives way below my feet, sending me forward a couple feet until I can regain my balance and snap back into the real world, not any less amiss by the Capitol and it's technological wonders, the tip of the iceberg having just been presented before my eyes.

I notice to my left a drawstring bag, blending in to its surroundings with its grey hue and simplistic design. I rush over to it, eager to begin the full simulator experience. Mannix had explained to us earlier, when Kyanite was still hanging around and in a session where all the trainers introduced themselves and explained their specialties, that his "one-of-a-kind" simulator would compress a games night or day into just a couple of minutes, testing our will and expertise with "mutt holograms" being programmed to attack us- and not to mention the environmental hazards, which lay rife across every situation, according to the young trainer.

Without thought, I rip open the bag as my fingers meet it, curiously looking it and its contents over before reaching in, my mind telling me to expect a trap. Alas, there's only some tinned beans, a sheathed knife and a bottle of iodine to go.

I draw my eyes away from the bag and look toward the horizon. The quarter-visible sun appears to melt below the horizon, folding itself into liquid at what makes itself out to be the edge of land.

I turn away from the setting sun and scream at the sight of a smouldering beast that runs at me with blistering speed, staring straight through me. It appears out of nowhere and almost randomly, its skin tinged with turquoise, striding effortlessly on the terrain below its feet, as if we stood on flat ground.

I scramble about for a moment, forgetting about the very real blade in my hand as what I now recognise to be a very non-real muttation speeding toward me, its claws stretching for my limbs.

I hold out my knife, closing my eyes, before dropping it without thought, my mind being reminded of my weaponless plight.

I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can as a the sound of a horrific shriek fills my ears, scaring me like never before. The noise is made of pure evil, its reach extending not only for my sense of sound, but for the part of my brain where fear resides.

However, it stops.

In less than a moment, the yawp is quelled into a low hum that fades into the nothingness around me without notoriety, providing me with a moment of bliss before I hear his high-pitched tone again.

"Go another round, Larkspur?"

I open my eyes, decidedly afraid at the world around me- a world which has, since I blocked it out, vanished. All remnants of whatever seaside wonderland I was in seem to be long gone, exchanging themselves for a bland metal and carbon composite.

I search myself in fright; the knife has disappeared with the land it lay on, and the drawstring bag that I held white-knuckled in my right hand has gone without a trace, a fact that momentarily leads me to question my sanity until I realise where I am.

I shake my head at Mannix and his rosy, pinkish cheeks as I make my way to the door, which is closer than I thought it to be. My mind turns to dwell on whatever the hell I've just experienced when he begins again.

"Well, come back some other- hey! Don't be disheartened! I can tell ya, ninety percent a' these kids come in here and get munched on first time- it takes practice! Larkspur? Lark?"

I don't want to ignore Mannix; he's too bubbly and I don't want to seem as evil as the mutt in the sim, but I keep walking, trying my best to act graceful and as if I'm not scared by him- though a graphic content warning would've been nice before I stepped into that damn sim.

I keep walking across the gymnasium-like training centre, opting not to head anywhere specific but to just keep walking, which is where my mind gets the better of me.

I try to ball my emotions up into a compact, tolerable, manageable _anything_ without any success. I realise my nerves are getting the better of me, but also that the sheer horror of the Hunger Games is not to be underestimated.

I'm holding back tears while thinking about what happened in the sim as I approach some station that I couldn't really care for at all, but still walk toward anyway.

 _Get yourself together, Lark._

 _You can't look weak in front of the other tributes_.

I imagine that's something Father would've said if he had come to see me after the reaping.

Oh.

I push the thought away as I find it depresses me further than my current predicament does, and I find the inner strength, if you could call it that, to read the sign for the station I've arrived at like a zombie.

"Snares."

I whisper under my breath and force myself to completely snap back into reality, dragging myself out of my flash-grief.

A girl with a slim build, confined shoulders and flowing hair as dark as night itself stands, her back turned to me. The traditional training outfits we've been given don't look too good on anyone, but this girl, hers looks like a perfect fit, complimenting her body shape near perfectly. The patch on her shoulder, interwoven with springtime colours of light green, dewy yellow and violet lying on a dark gray primary, indicates she's from Seven, and I remember her reaping for a moment.

 _She's the criminal one, the one in the black and white- the one where even Glenn himself didn't acknowledge her attire because he knew what it meant._

I hesitate for a second before stepping forward, taking my place next to the girl, whose hands are being manoeuvred by the trainer whose name I've also forgotten. Her palms wrap around what looks to be a roll of reed over a sawed blade, with some sharp wire sitting dormant on the miniature structure already.

Growing up in a township where kids make snares for fun and pranks, I can understand what's exactly being crafted before me. This girl's trying her luck at a self-locking snare, one that can be left out for days and could catch all sorts of things if not disturbed.

It seems the girl's taken a precautionary route when it comes to actually making the snare, opting for natural materials over man-made, bar the razor wire needed to hold and kill the prey targeted. I watch as she fumbles around for a while, obviously having never worked with traps properly before. The trainer tries his best not to get frustrated with her lack of effort and lack of response to his tips and instructions, but eventually does, leaving her to toil away at her work.

I decide to try my hand at some of the more complex snares on offer at the station. Back home a teacher of ours, Mr. Haggerdy, took some time out of our home ec classes to teach us how to interact with the wild. I remember a field trip he took my ridiculously large class on once, out into the fields by the orchards I considered applying to work at once.

Mr. Haggerdy was most definitely one of those survival type guys, one of those people who was overly interested in nature. On the field trip he demonstrated how to make snares to catch animals if we "ever got stuck in the wild" or something, though it was clear he was trying to prep his class of sixth-graders for their first reaping and possibly their first Hunger Games.

For some amount of time I try to conjure up every bit of Haggerdy advice I can, wrapping the wire in the special, sure-fire way he assured us would never fail in providing a good dinner out in the wilds. In what feels like no time I'm affixing some natural camouflage around my creation, testing my own ability to blend in.

After all, what's a snare's worth if it doesn't fit in with its surroundings?

"Do we really need to do snares? Whaddya take me for, Basil? Some kinda scaredy-puss? Huh?"

The tone of a voice not fully through its teenage phase fills the air behind me as I work, snapping me from my concentration but also enthusing me.

"Bertie, what if we need food? What if we're in dire need of some grub and there's some twist where there's no weapons or something? You know the gimmicks the gamemakers like to pull, don't you? Some snares could help us then."

I turn slightly, eyeing the large group that stand together on what I would call the outskirts of the snares station. There's a few faces I recognise; Glenn's there, along with the clumsy boy from Ten, the one that whacked the escort in the face. There's two other boys also, one of which I assume is named Bertie though I don't recognise him at all.

They stand there, the scruffy, hazel-haired boy half-jokingly arguing about how snares are lame and are pretty much useless- a statement I wholly disagree with and silently resent -while the boy with shoulder-length brown hair, whose name I learn to be Basil, argues for the opposite.

It's then and there where I decide that, if worst comes to worst, I'll be using snares during the next couple weeks- or... however long I last.

I turn to leave the snares station, pledging in my mind to return tomorrow and whenever else it isn't populated to hone my craft and somehow increase my chances of survival in this damn thing. I notice the criminal girl's brother or whatever approaching Glenn's group as I leave, but I pay no attention to it. I guess if they were true criminals they would've tried to murder someone by now, yet the girl looked somewhat peaceful and the boy hasn't made a ruckus.

I walk aimlessly again, blankly pondering how many of us here truly have goodness in our hearts. Being presented as a criminal means nothing if you're a genuine and kind person.

I try to possess an open mind to whoever I meet, whatever their story; I just wonder how many other tributes will do the same.

* * *

 **Pretty mellow, I'd say. Larkspur was a joy to write, as has been every tribute so far and I'm truly grateful for the wonderful characters I've received from you all.**

 **As I mentioned in the disclaimer at the beginning of this chapter, I'm going to try extra-hard for another update before December arrives. This is because for pretty much the entirety of next month I'll be in Greece and Italy on holiday.**

 **I leave on the fifth and return on Christmas Day, so I'll be working my ass off for a second update before the month rolls over. What I'm implying here is that there most likely won't be an update next month, and that's because I'm treating this time away from home as an escape from all the stress I've been experiencing over the past couple months. I really do try to consistently update this story for you all, but sometimes, and I hate that it has to, but sometimes school has to take priority. Once again, I apologise for the lack of consistency but I'm truly gonna work my ass off to get a second upload for this month to make up for my absence in the next.**

 **I guess I'll stop doing these hidden song things; I don't really do them on purpose- I just write, read over what I've written and my musical knowledge fuses with the words I've written, which can be exchanged for a song title with the same meaning of the words previously written, if that makes any sense. I mean, nobody really listens to my tastes anyway, so unless it's through a Google search, I doubt anyone could actually use the hints to find the song in the text and either way, participation rates are low, so.**

 **This is really darn long, so I'll stop myself here. Let me know your thoughts on this chapter and thank you for reading!**


	16. Flauntingly Flawless: Faberge

**Well, looks like I'm _really_ far off schedule with this one.**

* * *

Faberge Dynama, 17, District 1:

"Hey, watch this!"

I follow the words to the figure of Taylor Robles, my fellow Career and the volunteer from Four. He rears back as he prepares to hurl his trident- typical ocean boy -at the lone target that seems to hang from the ceiling by the back wall, over twenty metres away from where he stands.

It's clear he's been practicing a while; his stance is direct and confident, his biceps bulge as he arcs his throw, and his eyes dart upwards and back downwards every couple of seconds, predicting and making sure of the trajectory the trident will end up taking.

Taylor, or Tay-Tay, as we call him to piss him off, nearly crosses the blatant buffer zone marked by a red line on the floor as he sprints toward the open expanse featuring only one small, holographic circle.

Taylor hurls the weapon, his wayward glances not at all masking the pressure he feels. The trident follows its course, only for its intended target to spontaneously crumble, the remaining pieces shifting into a new target offspring that appears far to the left of Taylor's trident.

Taylor's expression is priceless. We'd just shifted ourselves, over to this new range, unknowing of the magic trick present.

"Haha!"

Vera and I begin to crack up where we stand, with Vera going as far as to clap her District partner on the back, commending him on his throw. She's rewarded with the most passive-aggressive look Taylor could give.

"How was I supposed to know it would move?"

I join Vera and cozy up to Taylor, still laughing genuinely. The boy's such a sweetheart- an unfortunate sweetheart, but a sweetheart nonetheless. Taylor's chocolate-coloured hair sways as we guide him away from what I presume is the advanced training station, a station I don't think Tay-Tay's quite ready for yet.

He's a looker, but I can't go falling for any more boys, not now.

"We could be spending our time better, you know."

The deep bellow of noise echos from behind us and I find it's a voice I've come to submissively roll my eyes at ever since the chariot rides.

"Caesarion Corelian," I say in a bored tone, drawing out the vowels in Cee's long-ass name. "Whatever would we do without you dragging us back to a regime?"

"I'm not here to fuck around."

"Oh, please! Don't you have any manners? There are three ladies present!"

Cee rolls his eyes at my intentional irritation, setting off alone for the pit of glory where we've already spent most of the day; the weapons station.

Furnished with every blade, bow and death-bringer you could ever require, this weapons station has been Cee's little hermit hole since training started this morning. Five are dotted around the gym, all adorned in pretty little flowers and daisy chains with freshly-mown grass covering the bare gymnasium beneath our feet all the while meeting the necessary borders. Cee's favourite little station lies right along the back wall of this place, as if it's protected by every other stop along the way.

I admit, it's a glorious place to visit, but we do have two more days to train, plus the work we've already put in over, oh, just our _entire lives_ being the proud little Careers that we are.

"Hey! Haven't you ever wanted to spice up your life, Corelian? Maybe do something other than repeatedly end tens, if not, _hundreds_ of foam dummy lives?"

Cee ignores me this time, so I follow the other Careers who, in turn, follow Cee. There isn't much arguing that goes on against the de facto pack leader, especially when said leader is a six-foot-two beast with eye muscles.

Cee's quiet though, even if he is from Two. I can't really say whether or not he's fully figured out my ditzy blonde routine just yet. Playing the part of the innocent dipshit is merely stage one in my games plan, however.

It's an expertly-crafted plan if I do say so myself.

It begins with my weapon of choice; the simply fabulous metal gloves known to the common man as gauntlets. Of course, I can totally work with knives and spathas and the like, but gauntlets are just too much fun. The sheer thought of the sprint, the dive and the rabid slicing of my foe is mind candy I could live off.

Furthering my genius, I plan to stick with the Careers until I can break them. Sure, I'll gladly wreak some havoc while my allies are around, but all throughout I'll be working to implode the alliance and back-stab like never before.

It's quite the solid method and quite the achievable goal, but I have been thinking as of late how it could be made easier. The people around me definitely don't seem as slick as I, but I'm sure everyone here has their own special quirks and ideas.

After all, of what worth is winging it when you're in the Hunger Games?

My fellow Careers, surely they're all going to be thinking the same sorta stuff here. I won't be trusting them, of course, but maybe I could use them somehow- more than I already plan to, that is.

Caesarion is most likely out of my reach as a manipulator, even with my countless hours of practice. He's definitely not some professor from Three, but he's so reserved I can only wonder what runs through his head. It doesn't help he's built like a mountain, either.

Basil, my District partner, decided not to join the Careers this year, he being non-academy and all. I presume he has his own alliance, as well as some slightly devious plan formed in unison with his allies. I don't think he's dumb enough to be fooled by me, however. He seems like a leader in his own right.

Unless I were to branch out and expand my options, which is strikingly uncommon of the recent Careers, I guess I'm stuck with Bianca, Vera and Tay-Tay. Granted, I appreciate those three a helluva lot more than I do Cee, but at the end of the day, someone's gotta win this thing.

I'm sure I could win over Taylor easy as pie, but the other two girls might take a little more work. I've only known them for a day, but I can already tell they're both as serious as I am about getting back home, cheque in hand.

I spot a lone physique at our weapons station up ahead, one who looks like they're using a spatha _way_ too big for them. I feel kinda bad that the first person they'll encounter is going to be Cee, who seems to be walking a bit faster at the sight of someone in his hermit hole.

"Hey!" Cee calls, looking like he's about to use the fact that he's from Two in a verbal argument. I fidget a bit, feeling a little bad for the kid who I can see now looks pretty darn similar to the Three boy from the reaping recap Basil and I reluctantly watched on the train.

"Go. Now!" Cee continues, snapping his finger and, ironically, pointing toward the exit as the Three kid turns to face him. I try my best not to laugh at what I presume is an unintended act; Cee doesn't exactly scream slapstick comedy.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Go."

Good ol' Cee, as blunt as ever. I crack a smile.

"Shove it," the plucky Three boy responds, turning back around to face his sword, only to wince when he attempts to hold it up and swing at the foam foe frontward of his figure.

That's when shit gets interesting.

Cee darts forward all of a sudden, and I notice the distressed look on Bianca's face that only lasts for a split second. Being Cee's District partner, she probably has knowledge of his dislikes already, a compound that probably extends to a fond hatred for scrawny little techno-nerds who decide to oppose him.

The Three boy doesn't see it coming, but he damn sure hears it when Cee snatches his sword fresh from his grip, taking it in his larger-than-life hands and applying pressure to the blade itself, twisting the metal to the left with pure ease.

I stand counting my lucky stars that Cee doesn't directly long for my death as the jaws around me all drop together.

"Jesus Christ," Taylor mutters, staring directly at the feat being performed right before his eyes.

Also staring directly, it seems, is Cee, who bores right through the Three boy's soul as he finishes the job on the spatha, dropping the thing to the floor with a clang. All eyes follow it on its way down, taking in the blade which now sits twisted at a ninety-degree angle halfway up its own spine.

The Three kid takes an uneasy step back before completely retreating to a group who stare at us from the axe station around the way. It's only with their gaze that I notice the entire room has its eyes on us with all souls basking in the silence.

"Heh, good one, Two."

A deep, nasally voice shatters the silence from a corner darker than everywhere else in this place. I can only just make out the unwashed black hair and the unnerving smile that seems to taste of lifelessness but also slight amusement at the little bout of chaos exhibited.

Cee snorts at the comment, turning back to the rack of swords set up to his left and thus setting afoot normal conversation again, much to the delight of the trainers who somehow don't seem too accustomed to training day conflict.

What would Holland make of this? Every tribute's seemingly playing some sort of secrecy game- bar the Three kid, I guess -and secrecy is right up Holland's alley; he only told me he liked me after four years of holding it in.

That must've been painful.

Our relationship is a complicated one to the untrained eye, but I'm willing to risk it all to return home to my besties-slash-lovers stinkin' darn rich. There's Paris, my girlfriend, along with Holland and Comoros, my two boyfriends. People think we're weird, but they really shouldn't knock it before they've even tried it. Having a relationship where more than two people share mutual feelings of love isn't weird, and I hold all three of my significant others dearer than I do my very own sisters.

How I wish they were here now.

 _"We'll be watching every second of you, Faberge! We're so proud!"_

The thought of Paris and her words after the reaping make me smile and feel warm, something I only allow myself to do when around those I love and cherish.

"Hey, Faberge, what're ya thinking?"

Vera's melodic voice abruptly drowns me in reality and its sorrows as she runs her finger delicately over the blades of a row of weapons that line the rack.

"We've got daggers, spathas, machetes, the whole shabang! Ooh, how about some throwing knives? You look like you need some throwing knives in your life, girl."

"I'll pass," I say with a coo, instead heading for the glittering prizes that hang at the very bottom of the huge rack.

Leather-insulated and tight-fitting with the end blades freshly sharpened, the gauntlets greet me with a patch of glare from the heavy lights above, as if there's a glint in their eye.

Whatever eye would exist on a gauntlet.

 _Stupid thoughts like that won't get you home._

 _Focus_.

I take my place in an empty booth designed to suit close-quarters combat training. The little foam men that Cee loves to disembowel so much huddle together in little clusters, as if they're shielding the true test that lies behind them.

Few small doors jut out of the reinforced glass wall behind the foam dummies. I know already that they contain praised trainers; they have the same thing back in One at the ginormous centres we used to marvel at as kids, the very same ones where we were grew up and eventually graduated, some of us falling into obscurity and others, well.

We'll see what happens, won't we?

 _No matter what, I'm gonna make these trainers toast._

 _Not literally_.

Ugh!

I channel my inner hatred and finalise my attention toward the open floor ahead of me. The secluded entryway seals itself as I pass through, probably locking me in here for the time being.

I pay the locking little recognition, instead searching eagerly, waiting for the first enemy to appear.

They've been painted all sorts of bright colours this year, it seems. A mellow pink figure charges toward me from my left, clutching what I can momentarily distinguish as two identical daggers. Short in stature but skinny enough to run at a respectable speed, I grit my teeth and dig my toes into the ground.

 _This is it_.

They'll be watching this, those Gamemakers. At some point in time.

Hell, they could be watching now; it's an open roof.

There's no time to pick out their little balcony, however, as the man darting towards me looks like he's ready to kill me.

I blast toward his position and swing my arms a little when I see his expression shift from "Look at this unprepared bitch!" to a little something a little like:

"Well shit."

I clash almost romantically with his two knives, my gauntlets scraping against his blades and holding us in an aggressive sort-of-embrace. I gradually haul his arms downwards as seconds turn to hours and face-studying becomes a ritual.

He seems almost scared at this point. His arms are now by his sides and I keep pushing them downward in an effort to force him to tear his own bodysuit enough to make it go from full flower power to mauled hedge.

I don't have enough time though. My ears pick up the sound of footsteps to my right and I turn my head to see a woman, pretty pink hair done up in a bun, charging from afar and wielding a flail.

Amateur weapons!

I force my current opponent back with a solid kick to the shin and groin respectively, forcing him into the fetal position where he proceeds to feel sorry for himself as I head off to challenge his friend.

Her bodysuit is a little different; a little more yellow, a little more green, a little more... fluorescent. In fact, it's so fluorescent that I have to hold myself from throwing up at its revolting _everything_.

My new foe swings at me while I'm still running, breathing hard. It comes pretty close, but I don't have to dodge like I have to on her next swing. It's purely a training weapon, possessing no spikes or any accessory that could cause more than a mild concussion, but I still duck below it and test my agility on the home stretch toward the trainer.

Veering directly into her slim figure, folding all my pent-up distress and anger into her unsteady frame. The trainer prepares again to swing for me, but I knock every last bit of wind out of her before she can even comprehend her situation, making sure to compose myself and contain the urge of forcing the razor-sharp blades that jut from my fingertips right up her guts, which, thankfully, is a strength of mine.

If this is the top-tier Capitol shit I've heard so much about, then I _can't wait_ for the Hunger Games to begin.

"Argh! My God, my leg!"

I clutch my tibia through the leather palms of my gauntlets, making sure to avoid my shin with the blades. I fall to the ground, my actions calling for a stop to proceedings as soon as the third competitor emerges in his bodysuits speckled with flecks of sheet metal or some other cheap, reflective material with which I can spy that a small crowd has amassed behind me.

No doubt Vera got some goonies over here to observe.

"Miss, are you hurt?"

The more the merrier.

My lady foe rises slowly, stammering. Her compatriots slowly stride to surround me as I dial up the look of pain on my face, saying but a word.

Perfect.

My plan has worked.

I jolt up unexpectedly, surprising the gullible bastards. I sling out my gauntlets and clash with metal as I shove away the newest of my foes, his sheet metal acting as a makeshift-ish armour. He tumbles backward, allowing me time to make light work of his colleagues. I disarm my first opponent, the man in the pink, with a few quick swipes, his blades clattering against the floor which can only be described as linoleum even when it's far from being simple lino.

Two down, one to go.

I rotate and catch a momentary glimpse of the snarl painted onto the woman's face. It's justified- I mean, she must've seen how humourous her comrades were just now.

"Shame you won't be any different!" I think aloud, charging towards her with the rage of a bull. People say I become a completely different person during training, but who doesn't? When you're a Career, you play to win.

And I'm sure as hell going to win.

I go to shoulder charge my foe but she dodges at the very last second, rendering my rage redundant. I nearly fall flat on my ass, but too many years in the academy have taught me to be stable. Instead, I spin on my heels and go to return to my foe, beginning to wade through the thick silence in the air.

" _That's_ a nice surprise," I mutter when I see that my old friend Pinky has slipped one of his daggers over to his friend, just to be a pain in the ass.

Armed and dangerous with a dagger and a flail now, I anticipate my movements as fast as I can; I can't be using any more mind tricks- they've already proved too useful and plus, a magician never reveals her secrets, _especially_ not to an audience comprised of those who she'll be fighting to the death within the week either.

I dart off from my standing position once more, weighing in the stance of my opponent once more. Her legs are spread open as she stands prepared in a wide bearing.

Right.

I make the last-second decision and my instincts say no, but my character can't pass up the golden opportunity for bamboozlement. The linoleum- or whatever it is -is damn slippery when it wants to be and I use it to my advantage, lowering down to knee-height as I sprint. My opponent's stance shivers as I do so, but before she can even ponder my reasoning I've fallen to my knees and slid through her legs and under her frame in a heartbeat.

I feel my knee joints ache as I come out of the slide position and my legs unfurl into a posture which they deem acceptable. I turn on a dime once more, clashing against my opponent's back and forcing her over onto her own flail, her dagger still clasped in her outstretched hand, unable to cause her chest any harm, unlike her flail which seems to have done just that.

I immediately fall kicking and screaming back into reality, not wanting to deal with any damage I've inflicted onto this trainer. My ears fill with the cheers and whoops of my fellow Careers as the entryway I waltzed through earlier reopens at the drop of a hat, allowing me passage out to the awaiting crowd.

I turn, taking a final look at the trainer struggling to pull herself up as her allies rush to her aid.

I decide to lap up the attention while it lasts.

* * *

 **Faberge Dynama, everyone.**

 **Look, I obviously have some explaining to do.**

 **First of all, I'm super duper ever-so sorry if this chapter feels off or subpar in any way at all, I really needed to get something out to you all after I decided I had been the worst person in the universe for ignoring my audience, submitters and simply everyone important to me on this site. Writing here and to such a lovely community gave me so much joy and to be frank, truthful and honest, life just got in the way and I'm so sorry and regretful that it had to happen like it did.**

 **Of course, I could never forget about FanFiction and my commitments and maybe just how much I'd let people down, so for the last couple months I've quietly dragged my sorry ass back here, writing and rewriting documents and chapters and paragraphs and sentences alike without telling a soul and showing as little activity as humanly possible. At the moment, I have the next five chapters written and ready to be served, and I dearly hope that they can be any recompense for my absence and ultimately my abandonment of this story.**

 **Don't get me wrong, though:**

 **MAYDAY WILL BE FINISHED.**

 **Mark my words, you lot. A finished story, you shall have.**

 **Maybe a sequel.**

 **Look, school sucks. My schedule has been crazy and of course, personal issues have been rife as of late. I'm going to continue to write as much as I can during this and all other holiday break periods that we have and can get.** **I truly long for the days where I could write a (maybe) quality chapter within three days and have it out by the third night; I miss that. I miss your wonderful reviews and commitment and love for this story and hell do I ever miss the lonesome nights in which it was just my computer and I and fifty-odd souls anticipating the words appearing on the screen.**

 **I'm sorry.**

 **Really, truly, fully and honestly.**

 **I hope you can all maybe forgive me and I do expect that not all of you will still give Mayday the time of day and that's okay; I let you down. It's my mistake. Just know that I thank you endlessly for the time that you _did_ give the story and if you are to go, I cherish the moments in which you have been involved with the story and I hope you do too.**

 **All the best.**

 **For those of you who might be sticking around, I thank you with all my heart, truly. Your undying commitment is what has spurred me on as I've quietly put myself to the grinder working on these upcoming chapters. I promise not to disappoint, though I ask for some space and leniency in regards to output time and communication. Please, feel free to leave any thoughts, evaluations or queries you may have in a review, I would so so so love to hear some feedback, either positive, analytical or constructive.**

 **I guess this is all from me for now. Thank you all for everything and much love. New chapter soon.**

 **As is tradition,** **I hope you enjoyed this chapter- please do leave thoughts on Faberge, too!**

 **Thank you for reading!**


	17. Vengeance: Lucian

**Some phat swearing in this chapter- not the usual suspects, though! Also, some graphic fight/struggle scenes around the beginning to middle. He's a heavy one, that Lucian!**

* * *

Lucian Dahlmer, 18, District 12:

Capitol television must be the prissiest shit I've ever seen.

I look for something to bore my eyes out with. This is the fifth time I've watched these chariot recaps and it's only because there's fuck all to do around this joint. The shot cuts back to the presenters from the Three tributes only so said presenters can drag on about how the chariot parade is such an esteemed tradition and gossip about tributes.

"Oh! Look how _attractive_ Caesarion is!"

"Oh! Doesn't Florina look simply _fantastic_ in that dress?"

"Oh! Glenn's smile is just _heartwarming_ ; I love it!"

 _Oh!_ How I wish I could just _kill_ them all!

Every single _one_ of those fucking presenters. Make them my foes, gamemakers.

I dare you.

I glare at the ginormous screen that sits propped a ways away. The television network recapping the eventis rolling through the parade highlights and has been tracking the Five tributes and their idiotic little atom costumes. The highlight reel has already traversed the tiny, tiny, itsy-bitsy little mishap the Six tributes caused during the middle of the shitshow so I'm left reclining, subjecting my eyes to a costume refresher which seems to have lasted for a fucking eternity already.

Oh, how I look forward to training. How eager I am to haul myself off of this obnoxious lime green couch and out into an observational position, far from prying eyes, where I'll watch and I'll learn everything about them all.

That's what I call fun.

I snicker.

Fuck knows I don't need to train. The competition is weak to say the least. Training today was fine, but everyone was finding their feet. It was quite humourous to be honest; the tiny Asian girl from Five was fucking around with a katana, the creepy, silent fuckers from Seven glued themselves to the foraging and survival stations for whatever reason and the fat shit from Eight sat around pissing off everyone within an immediate distance.

Fun.

 _Oh but Lucian, you know when the_ real _fun starts_.

I smile.

I glide back into the real world and tune my senses into the figures on the screen. It's Seven's own creepy fuckers in their tree and lumberjack get-ups, though the broadcast quickly switches to focus on District Ten's chariot where both tributes are dressed as wild animals, something I never noticed during my time in the stables.

Have to be better than that.

I refuse to let myself miss any tidbit of information in this pageant. Anything and everything is useful, as long as you know how to use it. That's my strategy; observe, learn and profit.

The show runs over the last remaining Districts, including Twelve. My lips shift slightly upward as I remember just how bruised Clyde was when he left the elevator after the parade compared to when he entered it. A fucking coal heap.

The bigot deserved his black eye.

"Thank you all for tuning in to this extra special Quarter Quell chariot parade! Now for a word from our sponsors."

My ears pick up a light groan from the vicinity to my left.

"I'm gonna make some tea. Want one?"

Lilian, my District partner.

I clear my throat before I respond. "Be like a normal person and get the Avox to do it, won't you?"

"But I like making it."

"Oh _fine_ , make your fucking tea."

Imbecile. How could any self-respecting person find joy in such a benign task?

Lilian huffs and pisses off to make her tea in the adjoining kitchenette, leaving me to watch the most obnoxious Capitol advertisements known to man. Our resident Avox looks bored shitless as she strides toward me, obviously looking to tidy up the coffee table I rest my leg on. It's like any other coffee table in the world- brown and made of wood -so much so it looks like it could've come out of the few manufacturing plants back in Twelve.

District Twelve at this moment seems worlds and galaxies away. The slums and garbage dump where I spent days away playing as a child could be- and may as well be -on another planet. The Capitol seems to be all it's cracked up to be; crazy, caked-up Capitolites and all.

Sure, there isn't much greenery here and there sure as hell is little back, ugh, _home_ , but the cosmopolitan shitfest I've been exposed to for the last however long has already corrupted my train of thought. Back home, you have purpose. There, you're born into an existence. You don't need to be a genius to figure it out.

Here, you're given everything like cherries straight into your mouth. The similarities are there, just exchange a life of luxury for the life of a miner.

Oh, and the endless misery.

It's all I can do to take advantage of it, the shared misery of every soul in my sad little town. It's what my family has done for years.

My father, having worked as both a miner and a treelopper, is well-versed with weaponry and the art of common sense. His bride, my mother, just as silently twisted as he. Together, they birthed myself and my sister Tharja. May twenty-eighth and tenth respectively; lucky she's a young 'un, or she very well could be here with me in this shithole.

But alas, I have grand old dearest Lilian for company.

Fuck this.

I shove myself off the couch, easing myself into my own back pain that has existed seemingly for millennia. An age of bending over and heavy lifting as an apprentice to my father is the cause.

It's a small price to pay.

Something I was taught almost instantaneously under his tuition is simply just how fragile the human anatomy really is. Eighteen years of age and I already have lumbar arthritis- though of course, my case is significantly minor when compared to other _experiments_ I've been privileged enough to perform and gaze upon.

I turn, looking upon Lilian and her presence in the kitchenette. She hums to herself frequently and it's past merely giving me the shits.

Soon.

I'll cut her like we've cut so many.

 _Soon_.

"Good _fucking_ evening, Lucy!"

A raspy, alcohol-influenced voice erupts from an area circa the indoor waterfall to my right.

Kalian.

The drunk bastard stumbles out from his dorm and searches for a reply, all the while taking a puff from his cigarette which conveniently occupies his right hand, an obvious weakness considering he himself is a righty and thus righteously useless with his left, even if it is attached to something he could use to attack.

Father always said I was good at observation.

"You dare call me by that fallacy once more and I'll make your good eye your own personal fucking ashtray."

He shudders.

Kalian Ellison is a greying forty-something sporting an eyepatch and a hook. He's as close to a pirate you'll get without visiting Four or one of those prissy costume stalls that always seem to magically appear every Halloween markets. His left eye was gouged out during his Hunger Games in a bloody fight that we've seen all too much as children of District Twelve. He's considered a hero come every May, having lost both vision and a limb yet still returning home, however most of Twelve see him simply as a ripoff Haymitch Abernathy with a hook.

He's turned into a shadow of his former self as of late. When he was younger, Kalian was celebrated as a handsome, fortunate young man who held a lust for life paralleled by none after his bouts in the arena. He was reaped and came from a poor background like all of Twelve, though he soon shot to stardom after he just barely won his games, his blade sent flying into his opponent's neck after his own left hand was sliced with such ferocity that only District Two could provide.

Soon, however, Kalian fell into a bout of fuckwit-ism, letting the money get to his head as per usual for every Twelve victor. He became a functional drinker who only cared about how many prostitutes he could do in a night every time he was in the Capitol, soon becoming a full-fledged alcoholic after he was scolded and outcast by Twelve for doing fuck all about the reaped children year after year after year.

Now, he just toys with us and gets the escort Theos to do the mentoring, a fact that has dispelled so many an-escort from wanting District Twelve over the last few decades.

Not that they wanted us in the first place anyway.

It's been years since we've had a second victor to coexist alongside Kalian; Kalian himself only knew the human in question for a short amount of time before he keeled over anyway.

That said, to be reaped in Twelve is to be put to death.

Kalian strides toward me, waddling through his drunken stupour.

"Heh, man, you look like you could use a-"

I hit the bottle out of his outstretched hand and glance down for a moment, lapping up the feeling of pain as it strikes my bare foot, the browned glass imprinting itself into my skin.

Kalian jumps back, his grey beard swaying ever-so-slightly on its own accord due to the sheer length of it. I hear Lily come peeking out from the kitchenette and gasp at the mess over the floor, or maybe more at the absolute state of this so-called team.

"What the _fuck_ , asshole?" Kalian screeches with the smallest of slurs. I make sure to keep an eye on that hook of his as I smirk.

"That's my last f-fucking bottle!" Kalian continues, kicking the pile of broken glass with his slipper. Lily screams as the pile spreads apart and takes flight, clashing against multiple objects from all angles.

"It _was_ your last."

"You... a-arrogant little c-c-c-cunt!"

Kalian's tone develops from a scream to a hiss as he takes point among the glass, near slipping in his drunkenness. I immediately grab the stem of his hook, forcing the rest of his arm into an arch as he hisses once more.

Kalian loses his balance without assistance from myself, his greying, unwashed hair splaying over his ragged face as he falls into what will become a myriad of cuts, slamming hard into the polished wooden floor and groaning loudly upon impact.

I turn, infuriated by the thought that he would even _try_ to get the once over on me. The front door bursts open as if on cue as I go to leave the shitty, glass-stricken, vomit-coloured penthouse. Theos wanders in and it takes him an extra second to paint a picture of exactly what the fuck just happened after I shove him out of my way, gently closing the door on my way out for added dramatics.

I continue down the hall, seething to myself. To possess such a great mind yet to be surrounded by such infancy is to be made of a mockery of.

I lump my tightened fist into the elevator call button and proceed to look for something to kill. As children we would perform brutal torture upon the local toads which was an amusing step-up from dissecting flowers in school.

I embrace this flashback just for the moment until my eyes set sight on a prize.

Down the hall to my right there lies an Avox. He's planting a new aloe vera plant into a pot.

Ah.

That must be the source of the loud crash we heard as soon as Kalian stepped outside to go grab more liquor before dinner.

The terracotta vase matches all the others in the vicinity and I assume it's an exact replica of the one that was broken. The Avox faces away from me, possibly oblivious to the absolute anarchy that just occurred inside the penthouse of District Twelve.

Maybe he was told not to care.

The ding of the elevator ceases my dive into the morals of the Avox, bringing me back to reality without a hitch. I hear a slight thump coming from the penthouse and think for just a moment more, still enraged by the thought of Kalian.

I clear my throat and the Avox turns.

I gesture with my finger for him to come closer, toward the elevator. Its doors open right on cue.

It's as if it knows.

The Avox hurriedly places the earthly base of the aloe into the pot, shaking the mulch off of his hands and into the mix while he's at it. He circles to face me once more and I point to the inside of the lift.

"Could you show me to the roof?"

The Avox stares at me for a moment. He's fairly young, with ash black hair and splotches of freckles smudged across his prominent features. He looks measly and I can tell he's no bodybuilder. In fact, he looks like he's lived under shitty weather his whole life. His brow furrows as he soaks in my sight; I'm imposing to him, towering above him by a great deal. The cardinal red uniform he wears gleams in the strong light raining down from the ceiling as he considers what I said.

His hand twitches.

Of course, he can't reply.

His head moves slightly and he leads himself into the elevator, beckoning for me to follow.

One characteristic of a good butcher is that of always taking opportunities. If an extra heap of lamb guts comes in for a fair price, to a good butcher, it's as good as sold. In such an underappreciated industry, expertise often goes unnoticed; take, for example, the precise way the skin of the animal is delicately severed from the carcass, or the efficient way the excess volume of the animal is disposed of. Maybe the many persuasive tactics the butcher uses to lure in his customers. These traditions, these skills are faceted to and passed down between families for generations and oftentimes methods stay secret and familial.

Such methods exist in my own family, a family descended from luthiers, treecutters and, of course, miners. A family turned modern, a family turned hungry.

A family turned vengeful.

I watch with intent as the Avox extends his bony finger to press the 'R' button, an obvious indication of our destination.

His final destination.

The journey is quick and the toasting cinders of my rage flare as if mixed with gasoline as the lift dings once again. I grab the Avox by the throat in a quick lunge, punching him under the ribs and winding him. I squeeze his neck and cut off the air from his windpipe, dragging him kicking and screaming- if he could -from the elevator as his hands slap at mine, prying for any grip available.

His fingernails are reasonably long so I adjust my stance to suit a one-handed grip and free my left hand to hold his down, slamming it back down to his waist.

It's easy game.

I grunt and force myself behind his limp-going body as he struggles for oxygen in a desperate panic.

It's amusing how feeble he is, both physically and mentally

He falls out of consciousness as soon as I get my full arm around him, proceeding to hold him in a blood choke until he stops wiggling. The pain I inflict upon this Avox seems to act as a soother for my own hatred and calms me profusely, settling my rage and my hunger for hurt. My biceps bulge as I continue to asphyxiate the Avox and I relish in the stimulation that floods my body all over.

The adrenaline.

The relief.

It's like a drug.

His jugulars are left inflamed by the time I'm properly finished. The grey, grey eyes that any Twelve citizen could only associate with the Seam lay bulging out of their sockets, his eyebrows raised in permanent harmony with the almighty crease tattooed into his forehead; a sign of stress, not struggle.

I make sure I'm always efficient and clean.

Just like a butcher.

A heavy touch from my foot rolls his pathetic mass over so he's looking down. I leave him propped up against an ornate lawn flamingo that was obviously included into the flowery rooftop decorations as an office joke. For the next half hour, I make a daisy chain out of the pink flowers that grow behind my best buddy, tying them all together with some dental floss from my ensuite.

"Perfect."

It looks charming around his collar. He looks like he's had nothing more than a few hickeys and maybe too much to drink tonight.

Just what I was hoping for.

My brow creases ever-so-slightly as I realise a daisy chain will never look as superbly stunning as my usual signature finish, though there's little I can do about that here. I take one final look at my creation before the elevator arrives to chauffeur me back to the penthouse.

Indeed, there's no coal dust anywhere around this place.

Back in Twelve, when my father was teaching me the ways of our bloodline, he introduced me to his signature play. Within each person we, as a family, found revenge upon, Father would sprinkle coal shavings onto the body in some way, shape or form. The first victim of my lifetime, an estranged coal miner who owed our relatives money, received his sign-off over his bright blue eyes, a permanent reminder that even the most beautiful, prized oddities can be combustible.

Nowadays, we've already taken care of all who owed us by taking something precious from the lives of their loved ones as recompense. In light of this, occasionally Mother will lure drunks and addicts from the cold, barren streets near the Seam using nothing but appearance and promises.

We kill them.

The elevator moves slowly, possibly adjusting itself. I press the circular cut-out etched with a '12' and begin my descent, utilising the travel time to make sure everything is in order.

My hands are just as powerful as ever, if a bit red. I tug on my slacks and shirt, effectively ironing out the creases with one simple action. I use the metallic golden reflection dead ahead of me to touch up my hair.

I found it ironic how I remember more from a single-semester beauty class we were required to undertake as trade students than any formal class I've ever taken, other than biology. I quite clearly remember the beauty teacher banging on about just how important it was to maintain a good look for success; to be neatly groomed, clean shaven and ever-presentable. She would always reiterate how important those facets of life were to ultimate success, ultimate greatness.

It rings true.

Of course, the beauty course could never relinquish my love for science. As much as school and formal education in general is a humongous time waste, _especially_ in a place like Panem, I don't know where I'd be if I never discovered my love for biology in particular.

The human anatomy being as frangible as it is exists as a marvel of life and its complexity. How a person can be conceived, born and killed so effortlessly is a wonder of creation. It's a teaching, told through warning. Either you can embrace life and its opportunities or you can have it taken away from you.

That's where I serve. I take it away from unruly peoples, those not worthy of its gifts. Debtors, drunks, adulterers, addicts, politicians: the grand lot. Those who have not accepted nor embraced life and have used it, have taken advantage of it in a poverty-stricken society.

The lowest of the low.

Not to say it can't be enjoyable.

Some would consider me a sadist; fuck knows I'm a masochist, but what's life without pleasure?

I embrace the opportunities I was given and it just so happens that my purpose is to derive opportunities of those who've wasted them.

I see no problem there.

To me, an Avox is a justified subject. They serve the state where they are nothing more than a number and a severed tongue and they have wasted their obviously wasted their opportunities by the fact that they exist _as_ an Avox.

Sure, I was provoked.

So what?

Sue me!

By the dawn of winter, everyone training today those couple of floors below will be long gone. All but one, as they say. Their fates will have befallen them and that isn't my problem.

However it happens, I'll be getting my revenge and I don't _care_ who I need to bring down for that to happen. Hell, I had my interview angle figured out _months_ ago.

I was presented with an opportunity when I was reaped and I'm damn fucking well going to take it.

The elevator doors open with a slight clunk and I begin to head back to the penthouse with a heavy stride. The intricate clock framed in gold above the elevator's exit tells me it's nearing my bedtime and boy, do I need the rest.

I have a big couple of weeks ahead.

* * *

 **There we have it ladies and gentlemen, big bad Lucian Dahlmer for you all!**

 **Thoughts, everyone? Lucian in particular has been a character that's been hanging around for a while now so boy, am I glad to have this chapter done and dusted! It was one of the most challenging to work through; I felt very stuck for ideas at some points and I had particular difficulty tying my ideas and interpretations together with the submitter's requests, but hey! We got there in the end, now didn't we?**

 **Along with that, may I add a big thank you once again for the simply exquisite tributes I've received for this story. I'm ever-so-grateful for each and every one of them and everyone so far has been a joy to write. I feel absolutely honoured to have such a diverse cast of characters on my debut story.**

 **I must address this also: I apologise for my extended absence! It's nothing too drastic this time around but it's an absence nonetheless. I promise chapters will be coming more frequently in the coming months! I hope someone's excited about that 'cause I am. Finding your spark, anyone? It seems to be a mid-to-late year thing for me and I don't know why.**

 **This note is getting pretty long, so I'll finish up with this: there are some big tribute interaction scenes in the coming chapters! Training days AND interviews coming up very VERY soon!** **I _may_ have jumped ahead and completed some chapters that are a little further up the road- don't worry! It's nothing story-altering, still POVs and that, but it's all for a good cause because the quicker I can pump out these chapters the better everything is for both the story and you guys reading, so all-in-all, hell yeah let's do it woop!**

 **Pretty happy to get this one out. I look forward to the future! For now, however, thank you all for reading!**


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